Man of Mist
by Carlis.B
Summary: Kristoph meets Polly, and finds that he's positive he saw him somewhere before - so he took drastic steps to make sure he can keep his eye on Polly : he adopts him. No Pairings, AU of Polly pre-AJ:AA
1. I :When the saints come calling

Note : I'm sorry if I've offend anyone with my portray of this place in NY. I've never even left the country, much less go to America, and the only things I know of NY I know from playing games set there, or reading about it in books. I'm not talking about the main city area, obviously, but somewhere vaguely uh...Around? Once, again, I'm sorry if I upset anyone in describing such a seedy place. x_x

Summary : To summarize, this is a story of Apollo before, during, and up to his first case in AJ: AA. This is the first chapter, and the rest goes on to tell his story - the way he felt during and after the case and all the drama of his pre-lawyer life- etc. And no, there will be no pairings, even if the story mostly revolves around Apollo and Kristoph. There will be an OC mentioned in this chapter, which will become one of the main characters in another story of mine soon, and a little bit of him will be slotted in here, for the fun of it.

Caution : Extremely long descriptions. Boring as heck. God knows I fell asleep writing this. Mild swearing in later chapters.

Disclaimer : Polly, and his horns belong to Capcom. Kristoph and his smexy butt belongs to Capcom too.

* * *

_I'm knock, knock, knocking on heaven's door._

_***  
_

_I : When the saints come calling._

The Institute of Saintly Light for the Protection of Children, was something that had never and will never live up to the name. It was placed on a corner of the darkest, seediest corner of New York, and walking into these kind of places was not something normal folk did. Even the people who lived on that street avoided walking on it – they sleep in their houses, stay there, and when the absolutely have to leave, they pull their caps down and wrap their coats around, stuffing their hands into their pockets and walk as fast as they can without looking downright suspicious.

The building itself was no saviour to the condition of the street in which it reside on – it was an ugly building, one built with a few spare coins by some senator desperate to raise his rating above the rock-bottom point by building himself an orphanage and proving himself to the press that he was a 'Champion of the people'. It was an ugly building, it bears repeat, because there is nothing beautiful or even bearable about it. It was a dismal, miserable building built on a square piece of ground – the construction didn't even have to apply a permit for, because no one cared about it and no one knows who owned it, not even perhaps, the owner itself – brick by red brick stacked onto each other to form a square building of square diameters ran by square people with no architectural incline of any form . If someone bothers to find out the exact measurement of it, the person would realize that the entire building inched to the left, slanted as though even it cannot bear the sight of itself and slowly, through the evolution of time, have recoiled in disgust of itself. It resembled a factory, with it's red brick walls stacked in uniformed shape, and that was, in the opinion of everyone that resided in it, true because it was a factory – a facility to shape young children unlucky enough to be in it into miserable adults to be let loose onto society. Even the administrators cannot argue that.

One of those unlucky children is Apollo Justice, who at the age of 16 has spent 8 years – exactly half the years of his life in that institute and had shown no signs of leaving soon.

There are only three ways to leave the institute before you reach the age of 21 and leave the place officially to become a lying, dishonest member of society – One, you commit a crime. This was a simple thing to do, and many of the children in that place, past and present had done it, whether with intention to leave or not, none could say. Many had joined the local gangs and committed misdemeanours, stealing, fighting, underaged drinking etcetera and got themselves arrested. This of course, provides the Institute with a reason to expel them, which they do without fail and without feel, and then they wash their hands, as if to get rid of the bad smell of said person's file and go to lunch.

The second way was much simpler - be born really smart, and with a talent for all sorts of things intellectual and smart and get yourself shipped off. That was the second way, and so far none of the people here had managed to do it except for Kazaf Devereux, a legend among the residents of the Institute. That kid was a world-class cyber-criminal, had amassed himself a whole arm-long resumé of fraud, hacking, and every conceivable crime possible on the net, at least, up till he was dragged off by officers who finally managed to track him down. While it doesn't seem much different from method one for the adults, it was a big difference for the residents. The kid was a legend. He may have went, but he definitely went with a bang. They all wanted to be like him.

Method number three seems the most logical, the most beneficial, but it was harder even than being born Einstein – get adopted. The reason for the amazingly low adoption rate in that neighbourhood was simple – no one really wanted kids. They have more than enough of them – hell, some of the kids wandering around the Institute probably had parents out there, parents who hadn't wanted them, who had left them to fend for themselves. Couples who can't have kids are rare, and even if there were, all they had to do was lean over the fence and ask their neighbours in a sweet tone - "Can I have your newborn baby please, Mrs XXX?" - and they'll get a baby. As if it wasn't already hard enough to find a couple willing to adopt, finding decent, white-collar ones was even harder – most who turn up had too many problems for even the wardens to discharge them a child.

And so every time there was a potential parent visiting the Institute, the children find themselves scrubbed and washed and polished and put into their Sunday's best, all lined up in the dining hall, ready for the visitor's inspection like vegetables in the market. It was happening right now.

Apollo stood at the end of the line, his palms clammy and sweaty. He fought the urge to wipe his forehead with his brown, coarse sleeve – it wasn't good form to give the impression that he was a sweater. Taking a peek down the line, he could see that a lot of the children lined up were having a similar dilemma, most were biting their lips, some were openly sweating. All were nervous. Oh, there were some that leaned back and flipped their dyed black hair over their face and pretended they don't care but Apollo could SEE what was really going on in their heads. They all wanted to be adopted, one and all.

It was like a shining plate of roasted meatloaf held above your head after ten whole years of eating 'nutritious' gruel. You either want it or you want it. Everyone here would kill the person next to them gladly without a second thought to get a family.

_Tip, tap, tip tap._ The Potential Saviour from Dumpy Institutes's shoes were tapping on the cement floor, making a clicking sound every time the heel hit the floor.

Today's visitor – the first since June this year, and it's early October already – was a harried looking man who looked like he had been putting one too many hours inro his office job and had gone home one time too many to a nagging, chirping wife. His tied was still on him – he obviously rushed here right after work – though it hanged loosely from his neck. His wife was hanging onto him too, but it was his arm that she hanged onto, with a smile that was somehow too wide and too cheerful at the same time. It was so sunny it was almost fake.

_Tip tap, tip tap._ The couple's feet slowly tapped down the line that stretched so far it could line the whole dining hall – or the canteen really – and the dining hall was big. Like factory big. They paused and examined a little girl, 8 years of age, and Apollo's pulse spiked.

_No!_ Have they already decided? But that wasn't fair! They hadn't even had a look at him!

He felt silly thinking that, like he was selling himself off or something. But he couldn't resist the thought and his heart going _ba-dump, ba-dump_ in his chest. He wanted this, he realized. He really really wanted this. He wanted to be shipped off to some nice, two-storey house with cramped quarters, and maybe he can have his own room, or share one with a sister. He would love to have a sister.

He wanted to be able to do those things people on television or in books were always doing - playing games, spending Sundays together, going shopping, sharing responsibilities and arguing, yes even arguing - with a family of his own.

He smoothed his hair off his forehead, checking them to see if they were still spiky. Spiky? Yes. _Perfect._

Truth was not on his side though, and statistic was even less so. Few couples want children as old as him. They prefer adorable little kids that they can bond with over the years, and who won't have so clear a memory of what life is like outside their household, who would cuddle around their legs like a furry animal and call them 'Mama' and 'Papa' without reserve.

It was okay though. He can hope right? He had a lot of it.

_Tip tap, tip tap. _The sound was getting on his nerves, which were already frayed in the first place. _Why was it taking so long? _Down the line he can see them whispering excitedly - well, one of them anyway – over a boy. Zack. Damn. It was good news though, if they were considering Zack. Zack is only one year younger than him, so it meant he still had a chance.

More tapping footsteps. They were getting closer now.

He smoothed his hair, then looked up the moment they got to him and beamed his best Please-Adopt-Me smile and like the rest, said his name.

"Apollo Justice, ma'am!" Only of course, it came out as a shout. A loud shout at that. He could hear snickers from the other kids and felt his face growing hot._ Dammit!_ If that voice of his repulses the woman, he swore he'll swallow a Molotov cocktail and not speak for the rest of his natural life.

He looked up shyly at the lady, but she was smiling at him, and he felt a little better. Maybe he'll stand a chance after all.

She interviewed the last of them, then walk to warden in all his glory of a beer belly and started speaking. Apollo felt his heart going like a racehorse. This was it, this was his big chance – if he could just get himself adopted, he'll get everything he ever wanted – a father, a mo--

"We want that girl, Amelie."

_What?_

He looked in disbelief at them, mouth agape. He lost his family again.

* * *

After all the excitement of the day, all Apollo wanted was to crawl into a hole and die with a book by John Grisham. Maybe The Rainmaker. He liked that one. He wallowed in the room he shared with three other boys for most of the rest of the afternoon – all the rooms in the building were divided so that they would fit two bunk beds for four people – and did just that, minus the dying part.

That was another hope dashed. How many times had it been, these past eight years? Parading down the dining hall in his Sunday best, always smiling, always hoping that somehow, this time, God would be nice to him. His prayers would be answered and he'll get the family he wanted, and he can move on to something better, something worthy of him. Apollo was not a vain or cruel person, but even he knew he was meant for better than a school that had teachers with no interest in teaching them and students who had no interest in learning. Every school day he never failed to show up. Almost every day there was no teacher – they were off smoking or doing god knows what – and he was left with his well-abused textbook. No one here even cared about their future. Or their education. Or even themselves for the matter. All they wanted was to leave. To work. Get married. Get someone to screw. Live. Procreate. Die.

He sulked on it. Rolling around the narrow bed until even he felt ridiculous with his own behaviour. He got up and stare out the window – he had been lucky in getting a first floor room : or perhaps not so since they were only granted to the oldest residents – it was nice weather – the leaves had just started red and gold, and even if the building was ugly, at least the fields outside wasn't. It would be nice to read out there. Having made a decision, he grabbed his book and headed outside.

On Apollo's favourite tree, he had invented - as well as patented it when it was asked of him by the other students – a pulley designed specifically for gangly people like him who can't climb trees to save their lives. His arms were far too long than they should be for his age, and he was always awkward with them – bumping into this and that. But wait. Gangly wasn't a politically correct term. If you called a normal person gangly, his father could sue you for the millions you don't have. No, it was better to call him precocious. Yes, that was what all the wardens – those who still bothered with politically correctness anyway – called him. The others just called him the stick insect.

He pulled the rope a little. Firm. No pranks involving cut rope this time.

The device was a simple mechanism, a piece of plank – a wood, a board, anything- fixed with two lengths of durable thick rope like the kind they use for camping trips like a swing. Then the other end of the rope is thrown across a strong tree branch of the tree you wish the climb, and using a miracle of muscle – or like a Apollo, a fixed pulley wheel he gets a tree-climber to fit into the branch – you slowly pull yourself up. It was a nifty device, and the only thing that can get Apollo onto a tree. He's crap at tree climbing.

He swings one leg over the branch and propped himself up against the trunk. Ah, bliss, he sighed contently. Up here, it was like being in heaven, especially when the sun was setting and the sky was all orange-gold with black streaks striking against it like it was today. Especially in fall. The leaves are red, and the grass is golden and you feel timeless just being here, swaying gently with the the wind. Here. He sighed again, - what a contradiction. He loved some things here so much, and hated some things here so much - raising his book up and started reading his law thriller.

* * *

"Hey, Pole!" a voice shouted.

Apollo closed his book a little and peered to his side, down, squinting a little with tired eyes. It was Jacques. Or Jack, as everyone called him around here. Why was he here? He didn't want to deal with the little twat. The disappointment earlier in the day had drained him of all energy.

"You reading those tombstone-books again?"

Jacques had no respect for books with more than 30 words in them, including the copyright remarks, and have always made this abundantly clear by torturing anyone who read them cruelly. This wasn't to say that he was the muscle of course, at 5"4 and 16 years of age, he wasn't much in the way of muscle to muscle anyone but eight-year-olds. No, that was his best friend, Tiny Tim. Kind big for a person with 'Tiny' in his names.

"Yeah, I am."

"What's it to you anyway? Why are you always up there reading those stupid books? They ain't got nothing but words."

_And what's it to you, crap face, that I choose to read them? Rabis up your butt? _Apollo mentally retorted. Of course, to say that in real was to ask for more gum on his shoes.

"I just like reading."

"Bullshit. You just acting all prissy 'cuz you think it's cool reading. I bet you don't even understand what you're reading."

"Yes, you're right Jack. I understand nothing." Consent is always sweet.

The boy – Apollo can't seem to think of him as anything more matured than a boy – peered up at him with a confused expression, as if he couldn't make out if he was being slighted or not. Not, he decided.

"So anyways, we were just going up for a game of foozball. You want to come?" he offered the olive branch. Only of course Apollo knew it wasn't anything of that sort. No doubt Jacques just wanted him on the opponent team so they would lose.

"I'm sorry Jack, but as you said, I need to go back to being cool. Reading, I mean." He ignored him and reopened his book. A rock hit his leg.

"Pole, I'm not asking okay? I'm telling you to get your ass down to the field, or you won't be playing any. For a month. Maybe forever."Jackques leered at Apollo, who found it amusing, but he knew what he said was true. Tiny would back his friend up, he always did.

"Alright, fine." He closed the book, throwing it down to the ground and winced when it hit the ground with a thud. He hated to treat his books that way, but that's the price you have to pay when you're born a bad tree-climber and you don't want to read on the ground because people -people like Jacques- will find you and make you play football with them. Not that it made any difference anyway, they always seem to find him. He slid down the tree.

"Lead the way, Jack." He tucked the book under his arm. He hope he can still hold the book by the end of the game. Some days the competition was so fierce – everyone slammed into everyone else and everyone else slammed into everyone they don't like – that by the time he climbed out of the ditch they called a field, he would be shaking all over. Jacques smirked and ran off towards the ditch, and Apollo followed.

_This is my life, _he thought. _My name is Apollo Justice, and this is my life.  
_

He ran off to join Jacques for a game of foozball.


	2. II : A selfmade devil

Note : To simplify things, this chapter starts two years before chapter one. In chapter one, Apollo is 16, meaning it is 6 years before the events of Apollo Justice. (He's 22 at the time.) At that time, Kristoph is 26, and Phoenix is 27, meaning it is one year after Phoenix was disbarred. At the beginning of this chapter, it is two years PRIOR to Apollo's 16th year, which means that Kristoph is 24, and Phoenix is 25. It is one year BEFORE Phoenix is disbarred, during the events of justice for all.

Note 2 : Any German in this page is translated with Google. Shoot it if it's wrong.

Note 3 (If you care) : Computer broke down while I was doing this.

* * *

**II : A self-made devil**

_Two years ago_

Kristoph twisted the phone he was holding into the groove of his neck and tilted his head to the side to hold it there while his other hand jabbed frantically at the 'save' button on his computer. The keyboard made a tapping, bouncing sort of noise, once. Twice. Three times. He stabbed at it again. Below him, the central processing unit started making a long wheezing sound, the sound he recognized to be the sign that his computer was overworked – maybe having it turned on for two whole months in a row wasn't healthy for it's disposition – and made one last frantic jab at ctrl and s. The machine gave another wheeze, then a spasm – if one can say a computer is having a spasm – and then silence. The wheezing stopped, along with the buzzing. The screen went black.

_Oh Gott, no. _

He tapped the keyboard again – but nothing happened, not even a flicker. He gave up, slamming his palm onto the keyboard and cussed.

"Ach, the lovely patient_ bruder_ is not so warm and lovely today. Why the impatience?" The voice from the phone chuckled with a German accent.

"It's nothing...Just that the computer broke down, and now the file I was working for two whole hours on is gone, just like that." He waved his hand in exasperation, swiveling on the chair.

"That old antique sitting on your table, it is still there? It is a long time pass it's bedtime – the last time I was there, it cannot even play Mario. Crashed every time I ate a mushroom."

"Well, yes, it is still there. I hadn't had the oppurtunity to ask Miss Devereux for a new computer. " He pushed the paper off the desk and pulled out the paperwork he needed and sighed. Might as well stop dilly-dallying and get to it. Elizabeth Devereux wouldn't be happy if she returned to the office and find that the entire table was clotted and his paperwork not done. Being a junior associate was a tough thing – paperwork usually falls into your lap when the senior attorneys are done with the case, even if the senior in question was kinder than most and did some of her own paperwork.

"Ah, that fraulein – her legs are still smooth and fine?"

"I don't know Klavier, I have better things to do than to look at her legs, unlike you. As if I could do that without her brother swinging that doll of his at me anyway."

"Haha, ja, that is true. When I returned to America, I would be sure to send her flowers – but for that brother of hers. " Klavier chuckled in the phone – his German accent was particularly strong – after spending a couple of years pulling all nighters in a German law school. He had hoped to pass the bar next year and make it as the youngest prosecutor ever in America.

"Yes, he is rather terrible for a child so young."

"I'll never forget the way he shouted at me when I tried to peck the fraulein's cheek during the autograph session. It looked as if he is about to become a victim of murder!" Kristoph smiled at the description of the child, scribbling randomly onto the margins of the document.

"But about that computer, Kristoph, why don't you just buy another one?"

The scratching of the pencil against the paper paused.

"Have you forgotten our conversation, Klavier?" He asked, a mild tone.

"Ach...Still a no go?"

"Yes, still a no go, as you so delicately put it."

"But Kris, you're a good lawyer, even if I do say so as your brother. Why is it so hard to make a living?"

Kristoph heaved a sigh. "Lawyers aren't pay dirt in this city, Klavier. There are just too many of them out there, and when you divide the cases between the lawyers in this city – you realize that there are virtually next to no case for them to handle – especially for a freshly graduated amateur like me. It's not just the ability you have that is in question, the question is whether people want to trust that ability or not."

"Ach...Tough life, this law, eh brother?"

"Says the boy who wants to be a lawyer himself." It was Kristoph's turn to chuckle now. " You had better work hard, 'else you'll end up struggling like me."

"Hmph, it's their loss if you ask me. You're the best lawyer I know."

"Oh, better even than that Miles Edgeworth you idolized so?"

"Bah. I was talking about defense attorneys."

"It's all about the reputation, Klavier. It's hard now, but it'll get better, I swear."

Over the phone, Kristoph could practically see Klavier nod. "But Kris, if you ever need anything – anything at all – you can just ask me, okay? The Gavinners are doing pretty well right now – even if we're studying and everything – and if you ever need anything --"

"No, Klavier." Kristoph cut off Klavier's serious voice, and felt the pencil he was holding snapped right into two when his fist curled tightly around it. There was no way in cold hell he was going to accept help – he hadn't fallen so low yet – especially from his _YOUNGER_ brother. "I don't need help, Klavier. I told you, it's just a phase. If I work hard, I can build myself a good repertoire and everything will be fine, life will move on...I'm going to hang up now."

Without waiting for an answer, he clicked the phone to disengaged it and throw it onto the table. He leaned back and closed his eyes, massaging his lids.

It was tough surviving in a city like this. You have to work for years, gain experience, work some more, until you can become a big-shot lawyer, the kind he wanted to be. But of course, real life doesn't just wait for you to get the checks deposited- it runs on without you – and he was already struggling under the burden of the city's insane rent. His luck had been anything but good recently – all the cases he had accepted turned out to be airtight in a bad way, the defendants were so guilty they practically had it painted on their foreheads – and it hadn't taken the prosecutor long to pinned the crime onto them, despite Kristoph's attempts. So he was still stuck in the no-name section. A nobody.

How to remedy that? He knew what the answer was, of course. He pulled open his desk drawer and withdraw a tiny piece of paper from it – barely wider than an inch. On it was written a name and a phone number – that of Wayne Nelson, an expert at forging evidences. He had received that particular number from a client of his, requesting that he contact the forger to get him off the hook. Kristoph refused, not wanting to do that, and he had been fired, and he washed his hands of the man.

He kept the phone number though.

He played with the paper a little, twisting it this way and that – he knew the number by heart anyway – it was the key to fame. All he had to do was arranged for some forged evidence...And he would be the next "Ace Attorney" before long. Fame was one phone call away, handier even than pizza.

But what then, he thought? There wasn't much glory in it, even if he would enjoy gloating over the others and holding his success above their heads. But he would know deep down that it was a betrayal to the legal system he so loved, - one corruption spins another – and he didn't know if he could live with himself if he did all that just to – what? To have a moment of fame? - get a defendant declared not guilty. It wasn't like they deserved it anyway.

He knew his answer. He spun the paper around some more, then put it back into the desk drawer.

* * *

_Everyone and their grandmother knew that defendant wasn't the one who did it. He didn't look like it, didn't act like it, didn't even look like he COULD do it, even if he had wanted to. Such a pasty, sweaty man, who can't even stomach the sight of raw meat – how could a person like that murder someone? And he can't. It was obvious to anyone with a mind that there was no way he could do it – the man had cried like a baby when he was told his girlfriend, stabbed and suffocated, was dead. He wouldn't even stand for a week after that and Kristoph, who knew quite a lot of the art of playacting, knew that he wasn't playacting. _

_Unfortunately for him, the law didn't have a mind of it's own and the evidence wasn't on his side. Seen from a purely logical, completely inhumane perspective it was his doing – the prints on the knife was his, the prints on the bag containing her was his – and so the branding of a murderer, was his. Everyone doubted that verdict, of course, but the courtroom isn't somewhere for people to stand around all day doubting – it was a place where so called justice is served, mercilessly, if need be – and so a reluctant judge clapped him with a reluctant guilty verdict, to be received by a reluctant audience whom filed out of the courtroom like a funeral procession._

_What a terrible system, they would lament, patting each other on their backs and crying at the injustice of the process. Some attorneys would voice the issue over martinis and vodkas. Everyone was sorrowful. Where is justice for the people, the would say. Then the case is swept away by the hustle and bustle of daily life and the man is forgotten, swept under the carpet, until the only thing left to remind people of him was a thrown away noose and a file record that would be kept in a corner of a dusty, musty room until it too, is gone._

_What was the point? Kristoph had thought as he saw it unfold before his eyes. Why was he defending a system such as this? Justice? Don't make me laugh. If no one plays by the rules, then why should I?_

_He left the courthouse with a different answer._

* * *

_Present day_

The blades of the wind is like the sword of a guardian goddess, standing guard before this no-man's land, Kristoph thought, with his usual touch of showy poetry. He wrapped his coat around him tighter and pulled the scarf higher up to stop the wind from scratching his neck raw. The wind, he thought sullenly, if one were to be completely inelegant, was howling like a madman – and he had heard a lot of madmen – not to mention acting like one. It tore at the road like it hated everything on sight, pulling at houses and cojoling trees into falling. He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to stop his teeth from chattering.

It was all that stupid man's fault – Wayne Nelson – he had insisted that Kristoph came all the way down to his dump of a house to clarify some point or other on the forged evidence. Kristoph was reluctant, but he was insistent, and so he had to come here, all the way across the city to check one insignificant point in the paper because he couldn't risk alienating the man. It was so annoying, coming and going at the beck of his call like a dog - but he had no choice, and Nelson knew it. He was the one forging the things he needed, so he thought he was beyond him. Well, Kristoph had yet to find a satisfactory replacement. Once he did, Nelson would be dealt with.

And now he's trapped in this freak storm, with no car to run off in. He obviously couldn't traveled down here in his midnight blue Ford, - it would attract far too much attention – so he had to take the bus halfway here and walked the rest of the way. Only now he would have to walk the WHOLE way, because the bus wasn't likely to come soon, with the wind raging like this. They wouldn't want to be trapped under some falling tree.

Above him, thunder flashed and then like a lot of thunderstorms, it brought a whole barrage of heavy raindrops without a second to pause for breath. The raindrops felled noisily, heavy and blunt, splattering on Kristoph and onto the ground, making mud splash everywhere. He stamped his feet, throwing a silent tantrum.

Great, now what was he going to do? He can't walk back in this weather. Hell, he'd probably drown before then. And what was he going to say when his suit turned out all muddy from the walk? The laundry people would no doubt be interested to know why the great Kristoph Gavin was walking around instead of driving. No, it won't do.

He looked around, and spied what he needed in the form of a large building on a field. It looked like a factory - though he wasn't sure since the sky was dark and light was sparse – with windows white from a layer of building dust and heavy steel frames. It was an unsatisfactory place. Still, trespassing in a dusty, dirty abandoned factory was preferable to wandering around out here like a fish upon the firmament. His only worry was there might be witnesses to his existence here today.

Still better than dying of pneumonia though, he admonished himself, and having made a decision, started running towards the building, careful not to step into any puddle of mud. When he got near though – he realized that what he thought was an abandoned factory was far from being so – a dozen childish faces were pressed onto the glass so tightly their face were scrunched up. He reached hesitantly at the heavy double doors and looked up. There was a sign there, worn by time, with the words Protection...Children... barely intelligible on it. Someone had scratched a picture of a middle finger onto it too.

_Charming_, he thought, for an orphanage. _What did the French said? Ah yes, enchanté._

* * *

When he stepped into the building, the first thing he did was to doubt his firmly held belief that there was no such thing as ghosts because indeed if there were such things as ghosts, this would be their perfect place to hangout. It was damp, it was dark, and it was musty. The ceiling had long since given up the pretense of being solid, and the ground had long since lost it's battle with dust. His light footsteps echoed like a church's bell. A woman, all fat and no lean, glided out to meet him.

"Oh, why hello there!"

"Ah, hello."

"What a pleasure to have you here with us Mr, ah..."

"Grant."

"Of course! Mr. Grant! So nice to have you here with us. We just had a visitor today, you know! So nice to have another so soon -oh dear, you look drenched, here why don't I take your coat?" She beamed at him, a smile so fake that if it had been a contradiction in court, he wouldn't know where to start pointing. He took off the coat, but didn't hand it to her outstretched fingers. That diminished her smile a little, but didn't put her off nonetheless.

She waved at an adjacent door. " Here now, why don't you join us for a cup of tea right over there in the dining hall? It'll stop you from shaking so, mm?"

Kristoph, try as he might, couldn't stop himself from shivering from the cold. He was soaked to the skin. Maybe deeper. Was there such a thing as soaked into your heart? He nodded a shivering head at her and she beamed even wider, practically snatching his coat away from him with glee. No doubt feeling it for the quality so that she would know whether or not to ask him for a dollar or twenty as a bribe. He trailed after into the next room, the one with the door slightly open, allowing a thin strip of light to enter.

The dining hall – as it turned out the room she lead him to was – was filled with rows after rows of wooden tables – the kind you would expect to see in an old Harry Potter movie – with matching benches. On it and around, would be strewn children, playing a game or two of cards as they aren't allowed out to play but right now, there were none. The whole group of them – those in the hall, at least – were packed together like sardines in a corner awkwardly with gawking expressions.

"Oh dears, why don't you go over there and play? We have a guest right here, let's make him at home, hmm?" She said with such a sugar sweet tone that Kristoph cringed. Obviously it wasn't normal behaviour for the woman, since the kids' jaws dropped even wider. This was one lady they weren't used to calling sweet. Her feet patted off as she left to make him that cup of tea she promised. Kristoph dropped himself into a bench at one corner of the room.

The kids looked at him.

He looked at the kids.

Maybe he should say something. The tension was unbearable.

"Hello." He smiled at them. That smile – calculated to equal parts friendly and equal parts kind – always worked wonders. It didn't fail him this time either. Something in the children petered out, and they return into a state of activity. Some of the older ones returned to what they were doing previously – vandalizing an already extremely vandalized wall with a chalk no doubt pilfered from school – and some of the younger ones remain huddled together, clutching onto their ragged dolls and smiling shyly at him. Others move to leave the hall.

Here was one flurry of activity - he observed the children – they had some kind of energy about them, children – that allow them to flit from one thing to another with an enthusiasm unmatched by any adult he knew. Maybe it was cynical, but it was true. He shuddered at the thought of having a child in his house – something the fat woman obviously wanted. Thinking about it made him shudder again. Never. His house is a neatly organized apartment, with shelves neatly organized with files, receipts, cases all in their respective sections, just like everything else in his life. He would never, ever, EVER want a child. Ever, he repeated, as the woman wobbled back into the room with a cup of tea, which she deposit in front of him. He raised the cup and sipped it. Unpleasant.

"So, ah, do you have an appointment, Mr. Grant?" She asked.

"No, I'm afraid not." He had already decided he would go along with this facade. Better to let her think that he came for a child than to think nothing at all. Emptiness of the mind is easily manipulated. He would know. "Was I suppose to?"

"Yes, but of course, it's alright! The office girl – bless her soul – is having a fever right now, and I do feel SO sorry to have to drag her up for the paperwork. You can just take it easy today, yes? Just take a look at our children, see if any catches you eye – oh but of course! I shouldn't be presumptuous!" She gave a shrilled high pitch laugh. Kristoph gave an answering smile to stop his mouth from turning down in a grimace.

"Of course."

"We're such a close family here you know, so- so tightly knitted! Like just the other Jack over there is just showing Ben over there how to do his homework," She pointed at a boy with scraggly boy with black hair, then at a boy with thick heavy-rimmed glasses on his face. Somehow he doubted that Jack would be teaching him any homework. "And then there's Polly. Such a nice boy he is! Why, just the other day, he brought me a bouquet of flowers, freshly picked you know!"

"Isn't that cruel of her to the plants?" He needled. Couldn't resist, she was just that annoying.

She gasped. "Of course not, by ah pick, I meant he picked it from the florist. As in choose? Yes, yes, that's what I meant. " She nodded, and her chin did a squiggly sort of dance. Kristoph bit his lip hard to stop himself from laughing.

"Oh yes," she continued. " And Polly is a he – Polly's just a nickname we give him, of course--" She nodded as if this was the most natural thing in the world-- " that's how we are like here! Everyone's a big, happy family! We're so close, it hurts me every time a child leaves, and I would cry for weeks on end."

"I wouldn't want to break up such a happy family then."

"Oh! But no no, it's only what they deserve, to have a REAAAAL family. We're just not enough you know. Tell me, are you married, Mr. Grant?"

"No, I'm afraid not." He shook his head and flashed a little apologetic smile.

"Oh." Slightly deflated. Then shook it off. "But don't worry about it! As long as you have no you know – she leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper – any criminal records, and you allow the social care people to check up on you every other month, it'll be fine! Not that there's anything wrong of course, it's just procedure."

It was so fun to see her so flustered, especially when he knew he had zero intention to adopt anyone.

"But silly girl! Here I am telling you all that – you should just see for yourself what our best child (Not that anyone is a favourite, you understand, merely that we're very proud of the boy.) is like!" She looked over at the boy named Jack. " Jack! Go get Polly down, won't you?"

"What, the Pole? How is HE the best kid here? Guy can't stand in the field for five minutes without getting himself knocked out." He complained, obviously having eavesdropped on the conversation.

"Just go get him, Jack." She hissed.

"Okay, okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. He's all muddy after the game, I bet he's still dirty all over." He got up from where he was sitting with the bench pushed back and his legs on the table and walked out of the room. Kristoph sat sipping more tea, keeping an eye on the slice of clear window and the sky outside. Both the wind and rain was letting up. He would see this best child of hers, then declare that he has seen enough for the day and leave, never to return. He'd had to take great care never to be spotted by the orphanage's residents. Reclining on his seat, he sipped his tea leisurely, enjoying all the attention from a bunch of little kids openly goggling at him.

A sound of heavy wood sliding on the floor rang, and two horns(?) poked into the room, followed by the face of a boy around Klavier's age.

"You asked for me, Miss Fisher?" His voice was clear, the kind that made every word sounded flawless, like that of a professional vocalist. He walked into the room, garbed in a clean cotton shirt. If he had indeed been on the losing side of whatever game they were playing, he showed no signs of it. Kristoph smiled at him. Here at last seemed a normal sort of kid, by his standard.

"Here, Polly, this is Mr. Grant." The woman gestured at the boy, then at Kristoph.

"Nice to meet you, sir!" Kristoph took back what he thought of him. His voice was far too loud.

"Nice to meet you." Another smile. He was getting the hang of this smile-and-they-shall-bow-to-you thing.

"And ah...My name is Apollo Justice, sir."

"But he's just Polly to us!"

"Of course." Kristoph inclined his head. Time to end this farce. He felt a little sorry for the boy, no doubt he'll be blamed for his leave, but he had no wish to remain in this depressing shelter for one more second. He dust off his partially dried shirt of any remaining dust and rose.

"This has been a really wonderful time – I thank you for the tea – Madam Fisher, but I really must ---" He stopped short when he saw the bracelet clasped around the boy's wrist. Following his line of sight, Apollo rubbed his wrist self-conciously. Kristoph raised his eyes to the boy's face and stared into his brown eyes, and with just a hint of uncertainty, he asked. "Where did you get that bracelet?"


	3. III : Laughter in the Halls

Caution : Swearing. Not excessively so, but a little vulgar.

* * *

**III : Laughter in the Halls**

For one whole week after a visit from one Mr. Grant, Apollo was a nervous train wreck. He was insulted all at once from all sides with feelings alternating from nervous to fearful to hopeful to depressed. On one hand, he was hopeful that maybe that Mr. Grant would somehow want to adopt him – that maybe that attention he had suddenly shown him after seeing his bracelet was entirely without a reason – at least not more than the general concerns, and he was just interested in _HIM_. On the other, he had a gut feeling – some instinct in him was telling him- that there was something more than what that Mr. Grant was telling. Every time he glanced at Apollo's bracelet, he would push his glasses up with a thoughtful expression. Something told Apollo it was a nervous habit, even if he looked as if he was seldom so.

Despite all that, Apollo hadn't felt that suspicious tug when he had said he would keep in touch, so whatever apprehension he had was always topped with that familiar layer of cream and pudding – hope. He would always have that, he realized. No matter how down things have gotten, or how many times he has been disappointed, some part of him just cannot stop hoping.

So he hoped.

He hoped for the entire week, wandering around the orphanage and school with a dreamy smile. He hoped while he was in class – for the first time in years, the teacher's lecture weren't met with his full attention – and he hoped while he was eating, and he hoped while he was sleeping. Mr. Grant probably wasn't lying when he said he would call again, so there might be a chance – however slim it was – that he might be adopted. He had said he was single, wasn't he? Well, he didn't care either way. Anything to get out of this god-depressing place.

In the mean time he would endure all the catcalls from Jack and his cronies, who every time they passed him in the hallway would mouth "Got adopted yet, Pole?". He would clench his fist and bite his lip to hold back a retort._ Patience,_ _Apollo_. No need to annoy them and get yourself into trouble. It won't be long now.

So he waited. And he hoped. And days rolled into weeks, and then into a month, and even Apollo's hope couldn't keep up it's optimistic self – lingering only as a fragment of his subconscious to be awaken when he was dreaming – and the days rolled on some more until one day, two whole months after a drenched man walked into it's halls, the Institute of Saintly Light for the Protection of Children received a second visit from Mr. Grant.

* * *

When Mr. Grant pulled his car onto the sidewalk in front of the building, everyone in it was agape. Here it was, a car never before seen in the neighbourhood – a car they would be hard pressed to find on the streets, much less theirs – and only seen infrequently on television shows featuring rich people who earned five figures a month. It was the colour of blue, midnight blue, and for days afterwards the residents would wax lyrical about the silkiness of it's very texture. Whoever was driving it was rich, and they were coming HERE.

The whole building was buzzing with excitement – everyone reached for that favourite pair of jeans and in the case of Apollo, his hair gel – and preened into mirrors. Suddenly the orphanage's bathroom was filled like never before – the children crammed themselves in front of the large sink mirrors and peered into their respective reflections, trying to see if their hair looked better when it droops to the left or to the right or if they should look more respectable. And the chatter! It was like a zoo filled with only monkeys chattering at the sight of a mountain of bananas – Who was it they wondered? Was it someone they knew? Have they been here before? What kind of person were they looking for? Even Jacques, usually the one most vocal about not wanting to br adopted and live in some preppy asshole's house, straightened his shirt. Then they gathered at the usual spot – the first window of the dining hall which was the nearest to the door and peered out of it.

The door of the car opened and a loafer-ed foot poked out. The rest of the person stepped out and all of them gasped. They recognized the man of course- it was hard not to recognize the man with his glasses and long blonde hair – but they can be excused for gasping because he looked completely different from the last time he was here. When he had rush into the place during that storm, he had looked like a wet rat pulled out of the sewers – an elegant, dignified sewer rat, but a sewer rat nonetheless. His glasses had been splattered with drops of mud and his hair was soaked thorougly with dirty rainwater – hell, even his boots were brown from dirt. There was none of that now. He was as dignified and proper as anything they have ever seen.

A small child in the crowd gasped and tugged at his sister's skirt. "Is that a prince like in the storybook?"

The thought crossed all of their minds. Some, like Jacques, even doubted if they were the same person. "Maybe it's I don't know, his brother or something," but it was hard to mistake that blonde hair twisted like a drill and it was harder yet to mistake that smile. It was calculated to be unforgettably nice, and it worked like a charm.

* * *

Apollo had been one of the crowd plastered against the window and fortunately for him, being one of the tallest proved to be his advantage – he could stick his head above the rest and get a place on the window. His spot, being seldom pressed again, was coated with a layer of dust and made him sneeze uncontrollably but that was alright – Mr. Grant was back. He felt the familiar rush he always feel before potential adopters come.

His hope hadn't failed him, he thought. Mr. Grant really had come back! He mustn't get ahead of himself of course, 'less he was crushed if he decided to adopt someone else. The thought was logical, but at the moment though, logic failed him, and he joined the brainless mass of grinning goofballs standing in the hall, changing positions to crowd around the door when he came in to take a good look at him. He smiled at them and gave a little wave. Apollo could practically hear everyone gasping. 

_Such perfect teeth!_ The teenage girls would gush. _What a suit!_ The boys would go. Apollo just stood there like a log, too far gone to do anything other than breathe.

They watched like reverently, like churchgoers deep in prayer as Grant was ushered in by Miss Fisher.

* * *

The door slammed shut behind the man – but not before The Fish pushed her fat head out and hissed at them to be quiet and behave themselves or they'll get it later. They disobeyed her, as usual, and went into a frenzy the moment Grant was out of ear shot.

"_....But my goodness, he's so handsome. Do you think...."_

"_...Maybe he's here for a bride you know! It's possible..."_

"_...Why would he....Marry him any time..."_

The girls were the loudest of the bunch, squealing with their high pitched voice and huddling around each other and shooting the guys evil looks periodically as though they were interested in their conversation and were all evil eavesdropper. It couldn't be further from the truth, the guys were gossiping amongst themselves too.

"_....Damn, the car's the new Ford, I heard it..."_

"_....downtown once, hell it was a second-hand..."_

"_...It's worth that damned much? Holy mother..."_

"_...Guy looks like he's worth a thousand clean bills..."_

"_...Whoever he chooses is gonna be SO lucky..."_

"_...buy a million Playstations..."_

The comments whizzed pass Apollo's head at light speed – the chattering was intensely intense, if there was such a thing. Never one for noise and feeling rather dazed anyway, he plopped himself down onto a bench.

This was it. It was do or die time – almost literally. He wasn't going to kid himself, hardly anyone wanted a kid as old as him, especially to adopt, unless they just wanted someone to pay the bills when they got older of course, and those hardly ever get approved. Mr. Grant was his last chance – his ONLY chance – to get himself into a better station in life. Get into the college he so desperately wanted to. He wasn't proud of the way he was thinking – he sounded like a bloody gold digger, but this is life. Like it or not. He wanted to go to college, study his ass off, get a job – maybe as a lawyer, he was rather keen on that, especially after he heard of the amazing Phoenix Wright who had a nearly perfect win record, a rare thing for defense attorneys – and basically just get out of this dump. And Grant was his only chance because no one else other than a single man would want him. He harboured no illusions, he had been rejected one too many times.

"Hey Pole, I bet you're happy, huh?" A voice broke him out of his reverie. He looked up from where he was frowning a brooding frown at a crack on the floor cement.

"Uh...Not particularly." he replied.

"Aw, stuff it man, I know you. You're thinking you're so much better than us now, aren't you?" he baited him.

"Not really," he replied quickly. "Why would I anyway? He hasn't said a word yet about who he's going home with." That was the way they spoke of adopters. Like themselves were vegetables or meat to be taken home by any buyers.

"Well, yeah. But you gotta admit he was paying real special attention to you." Jacques squinted at him. Apollo hated those eyes of his. Stupid, pudgy beady eyes. _I hope you fall on a fork and gouge them out._

"It was only because the Fish asked for me." He stood up to stop Jacques from leaning so forward. It was queasy.

"Well aren't you the lucky one?" he sneered. " A hundred ol' boys here and she picks the Pole to go with. Feeling proud of yourself that you managed to get her to do it? Must be fun being the resident nerd huh?"

People were starting to look at them now. Jacques wasn't known for his soft-spoken side.

"L-look, it was just dumb luck okay? It's not like she likes me or anything." Everyone gave a silent nod at this. The Fish did not like Apollo Justice. The Fish did not like anyone but people who take children off her hands and oil those similar hands with bribes to make the mountain of paperwork diminished substantially.

"Yeah, but she still did. So whatcha gonna do when you get out of here, Pole? You gonna send us back a bit of love? Or maybe you'll just forget all of us suckers who got left behind?"

"Uh..I'll send a postcard?" He suggested with a touch of sarcasm. Oops, wrong thing to say. Jacques expression darkened, it was obvious he was out for some blood.

"Listen, I had enough of you and stupid forehead. You're always so stuck up on your high horse – you think we don't know? - reading books about the law, saying shit about wanting to be those lawyers. College? Don't gimme that shit." He spat at Apollo. He ducked, and the spittle whizzed past him. "You're just an asshole who thinks he's better than us."

Behind Jacques, he could see a couple of his cronies nodding in agreement. This was bad. When Jacques started swearing, it meant it was pissed, and he had a talent for getting others pissed with him too.

"Well I got news for you, faggot. You ain't better than us." Jacques gave him a shove, and Apollo fell onto the table.

"L-look, like I said, he hasn't choose me, so I don't know why you're--" he stammered.

"Oh? What makes you so sure he won't anyway? You had a chat with him? That it?" He sneered again. Apollo clenched his fist and tried to calm himself. There was no use getting angry at these kind of people. No use. He repeated it to himself over and over again in his head like a mantra to calm himself. "What, nothing to say?" Jacques gave him another shove.

"I already told you--"

"Yeah, and_ I _already told you : I think you're a faggot, so how come you don't start listening and fuck yourself? What kind of bitch was your mom anyway, she got rabies or something when she had you? 'cuz you're a moron, through and through."

Okay. That was_ it._ No one insulted his mother, whoever she was.

Apollo clenched his fist and felt 8 years worth of humiliation and anger at that humiliation boiled like a Shakespearean cauldron in him. Eight years. Eight whole years he had endured this. If he endure a little more, he might just get out of here. If he hit Jacques now, he could kiss his adoption goodbye. He'll be under a "Difficult to handle" label forever. That was the logical thought though, and right now Apollo was seeing too much red to care very much about logic. He drew back his arm and let loose a punch at Jacques face. It caught him by surprise, and Jacques fell backwards onto the floor, a stunned expression on his face.

Bet he never imagined that Apollo could hit that hard. Apollo knelt down in front of him and he continued staring at Apollo with that stunned beady eyes. He punched him again. Hell, he was having too much fun to stop – eight years. **_Eight years_**. That was 2920 days of having put up with him and the rest of his stupid group who think that just because they have more muscles than everyone else, they can do whatever they want with it – and he channeled that anger – everything that they threw at him and more – and climbed onto Jacques, punching him repeatedly, raining all that love they gave him back at him. Jacques struggled and hit him back. Apollo hit back harder.

The crowd was yelling – some part of his sane brain told him – and he knew it wouldn't be long before someone came and he got in trouble, and he felt vaguely someone's strong hand trying to pull him off but Apollo was berserk, and his anger gave him strength and he struggled against the person and went back to hitting Jacques like a punch bag – again and again and again – everything was covered by a red haze and he didn't care about anything except to make him feel everything that he had been put through. He wrapped his hands around Jacques' neck and squeezed. More shouting. Jacques beat at him with his fist, but Apollo didn't even feel pain any more.

_PUNISH HIM PUNISH HIM PUNISH HIM PUNISH HIM_--

_"Stop it!"_

_"Someone, stop him! The Pole's out of control!"_

_"Oh my god, someone get the warden!"_

Just a little more...And he'll be able to shut Jacques up forever. He squeezed even harder and struggled against whoever it was trying to pull him off Jacques. He was berserk. Yes, that was the word. Maybe beyond that. Was there such a word?

Then abruptly, the heavy wooden doors slammed opened and someone – he didn't care who, didn't give a bloody damn – walked in.

The crowd hushed immediately and that silence for some reason, seemed to brought him a little back to reality. He loosen his grasp at Jacques' neck and looked up and saw who it was –- Grant. With a pleased sort of smile playing on his lips as he looked at Apollo and his intended prey.

* * *

"I'm so sorry you had to witness that Mr. Gavin. I can assure you that these things have never happened before and we can understand of course if you are upset, but once again, we assure you --"

Grant cut off her barrage of remarks with a wave of his hand, even as Apollo looked up from where he had been standing beside the door with a shamefaced expression and voiced his question unthinkingly.

"Gavin? I thought his name was Mr. Grant."

The Fish looked up with a sharp glare and snapped at him. "That's none of your business boy, and I swear to God, if it isn't for Mr. Gavin here, I don't know what I'll do to you."

Apollo knew alright, and he knew it involved a thick cane that was as thick as two of his fingers.

"It's alright really, Miss Fisher," Mr. Grant(?) said, then addressed Apollo with a smile. " I concealed my name, because I didn't wish for it to be made public that I am looking for someone to adopt. These news...They sometimes travel, and gossip isn't something I am partial to, you understand. Especially when it involves me."

Apollo didn't understand, but he nodded anyway. Fish forged on ahead, as if Mr. Gavin had never spoken.

"--but of course, Mr. Gavin, we would really appreciate it if you don't let this silly boy here taint your view of our orphanage. The rest of the children are very nice – you can meet them again if you want to, of course – I'll understand if you don't want this...Problematic boy any more."

His breath caught in his throat and he felt choked. He had been right after all, the man had wanted to adopt him. Until that is, he went and started the stupid scene out there. Why hadn't he controlled himself a little? It was just a little more, just a couple more insults and he would be out of this place. Home free. He gave himself an inner kick.

Gavin looked thoughtful at the suggestion and started speaking with The Fish, but Apollo was too caught in his thoughts to take note of their conversation.

What would The Fish do to him for this whole thing? Caning? It doesn't really matter any more anyway, what The Fish did to him. Whatever she did, it'll be multiplied ten-fold when Jacques got his hands on him. Humiliation did not go unpunished in the Institute of Saintly Light, especially when said person was Jacques. Maybe they would stab him with something - he had heard a boy on the other side of the city- a kid just like him who got stabbed for pouring beer onto a gang member --

"--- of course of course. You behave yourself now, you hear me boy?" Apollo's head snapped up when he heard The Fish addressing him. He adopted an intelligent, knowledgeable expression and nod.

"Of course, Miss Fisher."What the hell did she said?

Mr. Gavin obviously knew he hadn't been paying a nickel of attention to the direction the conversation was taking and took pity on him. "I have requested we be left alone for a little...talk."

"Oh."

He watched as Fish shuffled and wobbled herself out of the room, and the door clicked with a note of finality when it swung shut.

He gulped. Left alone.

With what would have been his saviour.

"Tell me, how have you been, Apollo?" came the question.

"I'm uh...I'm fine, sir!" He decided that cheerfulness would be his best defense. And if he can't exactly manage cheerfulness, then at least he could pretend to be full of spirit.

Gavin tilted his head at him, as though trying to see into his mind with his smile. " Now, I believe you're in some sort of a trouble with the fish-- Ah, Miss Fisher?"

Apollo smiled a little at that slip of his. He felt sure it was down on purpose, but it made him a bit more at ease. " Yes sir, I think the um...scene out there might have landed me in bit of hot soup."

"Of course," he inclined his head. " Why did you do that anyway?"

"He was being rude to me." Apollo said. He refused to be apologetic. It may have landed him in trouble, it may have been his undoing, but he was NOT going to apologize for it because he was NOT wrong. He fixed his firm gaze at a spot beyond the man's shoulder.

"Ah. Did he insulted you?"

"Yes."

"You know Justice, if you go around hitting everyone who insult you, you're going to land yourself in a lot more than hot soup you know." Gavin smiled at him. Apollo grinned back sheepishly.

"I don't hit everyone who insult me, just this once. I was mad, I guess."

"...I understand. I too am human. It's something we all have to face sometime or other." Despite his smile, Apollo had the feeling that Gavin was not a man you wanted to be around when he was upset. Called it a gut feeling. Called it whatever, but it was true.

"Yes, sir."

Gavin leaned forward a little. "By the way, I've noticed your bracelet – it's very unique. In fact, it looks very much like another bracelet I have seen before. Where did you get it?"

_Ah, now we get to the heart of the matter._

"I didn't steal it sir, if that's what you're implying."

"No no, of course not. I was just wondering – it's a very rare design."

"Oh," He loosened a bit. "I don't know really. When they found me, I had it with me."

" 'They'? " a pause. Then, " 'Found you?' "

"The police. They found me wandering around here with a bleeding head and no memory. The police thought I had fell out of a truck during a kidnapping. "

"Ah, I see. So you have no memory prior to the incident?"

"No, sir."

"Hmm." Mr. Gavin adopted a thoughtful expression and slid a glance at the bracelet again. "Does it do anything for you?"

_What kind of question was that?_ A strange question, that much was for sure.

"No sir, I don't think so." he answered truthfully.

"I see." His smile got a lot more cheerful all of a sudden and he changed the topic. " Tell me, Justice, I know this is sudden, but what do you think of moving in with me?"

Wow. Bombshell.

Apollo swallowed and stammered. "Y-you mean, you'll adopt me, sir?"

"Hmm. Adopt seems a rather strange word, considering our respective ages, but yes, that is the general proposal." He nodded at him. " I'm a lawyer, you see, and I live in a rather...cluttered place. I wouldn't mind some company, since my brother has moved out and I heard you're interested to be a lawyer too. That's part of the reason I made this decision, actually."

"O-of course. Being a lawyer, that's what I've always wanted to be sir," He stammered and add "ever since I heard about Phoenix Wright."

Gavin blinked a little, then pushed his glasses up. The light reflected on his glasses, leaving his eyes shielded beneath it. "Of course, Phoenix Wright is rather an amazing lawyer. It really is too bad about the whole disbarment thing."

"Yeah! That's right sir! I mean, I-I want to be a great defense attorney, just like him!"

"Of course. I expect you to work hard on it though." he peered at Apollo.

"Of course! I mean, yes sir!" He shouted, with a stamp and a salute thrown in for good measure. Gavin laughed a little, and they exchanged some pleasant conversation and small talk about their respective lives for a whole hour before Mr. Gavin (Kristoph Gavin was his full name, Apollo's been told.) stood and announced pleasantly that he should be going.

"I think we should wrap things up here. We'll have all the time in the world to chat later."

Then he added in a conspiratorial whisper and a sly smile, "No doubt she's having her ear plastered to the door, trying to eavesdrop on our conversation." Apollo mouthed "I bet you a fiver she isn't. Kristoph Gavin made an okay sign, pulled open the door, and lo and behold – a surprised Fish fell right through and hit the floor with a stunned look on her face – quite like a fish pulled out of water indeed.

Apollo laughed more that day then he had for months.


	4. IV : A Pawn for a Rook

Note : In case two of AJ : AA, you will notice that Apollo doesn't know that Kristoph has a brother. Hence my made up excuse .

Note 2 : Thanks for the review, Alice. If you're reading this chapter, you'll see how Kristoph found out about the bracelet. Hope that answers your question!

* * *

**IV : The Pawn for a Rook**

He had seen that bracelet before – he was sure of it. He was as sure of it as he was that the sky is blue, and that Marxism was an excellent read and that nail polishing is a divine hobby – He just couldn't determine exactly where he had seen that bracelet before. He knew it was important, that much he knew for sure because he had a special area in his mind where he stored everything important – and he was pretty sure this bracelet was something he had once filed away in his brain as something very, very important. Too bad he didn't file what it was into his brain too.

Kristoph tugged at the second metal drawer in a series of them, stacked and placed neatly into a corner of his hypochondriac office. The metal was cold and chilly to the touch, and it slammed and opened itself with a similar sound – cold of clarity, clanging. He dived into the files buried in it and flipped through the labels – Astra? No, that difficult woman he had dealt with. Freer than a bird now. What about that other man, the one who had dared accused Kristoph of being in cahoots with the prosecution then? Was the bracelet related to him? He pulled out the file and flipped through it, reading through while his mind supplied a barrage of other unwritten words. No, it wasn't him. Kristoph stashed it back into the drawer and slammed it shut, then tackled the next one.

He had been at this for days now. Every day when he returned from work he would flip through his records of all his proceedings and checked if something could jog his memory as to what that bracelet was. In fact, he had being doing this for every day since he returned from the orphanage after meeting Apollo Justice. His name didn't ring any bells, but that wasn't something significant. People changed their names everyday. He knew it was important – so he pressed on.

For the first time in his life, he cursed the fact that he had neatly documented everything he worked on and filed it away into an ever-growing vault of files. He had been doing this since the day he became a lawyer – even before that, when he was working as a lowly paralegal while in law school – and junior at the Devereux firm. Elizabeth hadn't objected to his obsessive record-keeping, and so now he had thousands of records to flip through.

Great, Kristoph, just great. Give yourself a pat on the back, why don't you?

It didn't matter though – having something to do with his extra time helped him to keep his mind off other things...Other, unpleasant things. And he was already finished with F, and that was six alphabets down. That was a good sign, no? He took a tiny break in which he ate a bagel and drank some tea, then switched on the television and allowed it to run. A woman was chirping incessantly about how nice a Saturday afternoon it was – and went back to work.

Galant, Geira, Gnome and....His fingers paused. Gramarye. Ah yes that case, the one in which Phoenix Wright, attorney most wonderful and lovely had been finally beaten in his own game – stabbed from behind until he was bloody all over. Kristoph loved to read the case file – he had obtained one from a forgetful, clumsy detective named Gumshoe – during his free time. In fact, it was one of his favourite past times. When he came home from a busy day at the Gavin law firm, he'll pull out the file and read it, savouring the description of the forged evidence.

Victory was so sweet that were it edible, Kristoph would be heavily diabetic.

He smiled another of his smug, cruel smiles – resisting the ridiculous urge to look around to see if anyone was looking – and pulled the file out. _Gramarye, Gramarye, _even in death, the name still spun the most amazing magic Kristoph cared for – the dethroning of that bastard who stole the case from right under his nose. He flipped it open and read it, reclining on the floor with his back leaning against his chair's legs. He'd read it a hundred times before, but like a classic joke, it never got old. He flipped through the part describing the trial, the evidence report – Vera Misham is truly an enchanting_ mädchen _ - and then his own added remarks and evidences. Nothing incriminating of course, only what a normal attorney would find in his investigation. He flipped through the page with the pictures of the Gramarye troupe and was on his way to the next page when he froze

His heart skipped a beat.

He looked at the picture of Thalassa Gramarye, posing with the other Zak and Valant for a promotional poster for a magic show, and even he, composed and unshakable Kristoph Gavin uttered a muffled gasp. He slid his fingers down at the offending spot on the picture, as though to see if it was real or a hallucination.

The bracelet – the same bracelet Apollo Justice carries – grinned at him from around Thalassa Gramarye's wrist.

* * *

His first line of work was to find out exactly how rare that bracelet was – he didn't panic, and he most certainly did not want to panic if it turned out that it was a souvenir from some vacation village about as rare as pink cotton candy. His first stop was of course, the library, after worming out all Valant Gramarye would tell him in a phone conversation where he pretended to be a police - the name of it. There was everything you need and everything you DON'T need in the library, and it was one of Kristoph's favourite places. It didn't take long at all for him to find information on the bracelet – not because it was terribly common as he had hoped – but because it was an extremely rare article. Only a few known to be left, in fact. One was in a museum in China, one was being housed by a rich billionaire in France. There were only two known to be in America, and both were heirlooms of the Gramarye family.

He moved back from where he was leaning forward and staring at the page in the encyclopedia intensely. Something was scratching the wood of the table. He looked down, and was surprised to see his hands had curled onto the edge of the table and his nails were biting into the table like it was butter and his nails were knives. He sat himself straight, and told himself in the simplest manner possible to behave himself – he started thinking.

He reviewed the facts : Whoever this Apollo Justice was, he had one of the bracelets that Thalassa Gramarye had, a woman who had supposedly gone missing, and from what he had dug out, dead. Then there was only one way the boy could have gotten it. Either he stole it, which seems very unlikely given his straight-laced personality, and the case was from his days back in L.A. That leaves only one more alternative – someone gave it to him.

Which meant that he was another important player in this Gramarye story, which was rapidly turning into a saga.

Kristoph's lip curled in disdain - It looks like the story isn't quite over yet. He thought the worst setback would be the fact that Drew and Vera Misham is alive, but it seems there was another player connected to this little game of chess, and he, Kristoph Gavin...He was going to find out exactly how much that boy knew and the best way to do that was to have him under his eye all the time.

He would have to adopt him.

* * *

Kristoph winced when Apollo threw down his bag on the floor of his apartment. The sound of the bag hitting the floor was to him, like a bell being rang to signal the end of his days of quiet and peace and lovely bachelorhood – he was, at least on paper anyway, willing father of one Apollo Justice.

Apollo took a look around the room, and from the expression on his face – all wonder and joy – Kristoph knew he had never seen something like this, much less own it. No, whatever room he had ever been in would probably be dirty and cramped – like that disgusting place he calls -called, he reminded himself. _Gott_, this was going to get some using to – home. He had seen his room when Apollo, after the papers were signed and approved by the Fish woman as the guardian of Apollo, hurried off to pack his meager belongings into a sparse bag. He had little enough that the tiny bag he was given by the Fish still had enough space for it's contents to be jiggled around even after everything he had was stuffed into it.

Kind of like his nerves, Kristoph thought with a touch amusement. Sparse and loose.

" So, do you like this one? I have another spare room, if you don't care for purple much."

"It's amazing, sir! I mean, i-it's really really nice!" Apollo gushed. "Really!"

Kristoph laughed. Little people are so easily pleased by little things. Apollo picked up a guitar peeking out from the closet. "Do you play the guitar, sir?"

Kristoph smiled and gave him an indulgent smile. He opened his mouth to tell him that it was in fact, his brother's before shutting it again. If he knew about his brother, he might insist on meeting him someday. And the lesser any lawyer – hell, anyone, his own brother included – knew about Apollo Justice, the better. He didn't want curious people related to the case to notice the same thing he had, and it's not like he can pry that bracelet out of Apollo's hands. And even if he did, there was still the lingering fact that Apollo might know something more than he was willing to let on.

"I tried to learn." He said vaguely.

"Oh." Apollo mumbled, plucking at the strings experimentally.

"Why, interested to learn to?"

"Nah, I'm tone deaf. I can't tell Do from Re if my life depends on it."

"I see."

He watched as Apollo unpacked. He flipped the bag upside down and shook everything loose from it. _One two three_..._Was that all?_

"Is that all you own?"

Apollo blushed. " Um well, the rest of the things really legally belongs the orphanage so..."

"I see." He pondered the matter a little. He can't have Apollo wandering around here looking like an impoverished waif, God knows what the neighbour would think. He had to at least package him enough to convince people that he was his nephew. He gestured towards the room at the boy. " Why don't you settle in, Apollo? I think we're going to have to remedy that in a moment."

The boy looked at him, confused. "Um...What do you mean, sir?"

Kristoph's eyes gleamed with a spark of devilish glee when he announced with an air of finality : "We, are going shopping."

"S-Shopping, sir?" Apollo gulped. He nodded.

If he must be stuck with this boy, for better for worse, then he might as well have some fun. He smiled like a cat who's nipped the cream.

Yes, he was going to have so. _much._ **_fun.  
_**

* * *

"No Apollo, the one over there."

"This one, sir?"

"Yes, take it out." A pause. "Hmmm...Turn it around."

Kristoph snapped his fingers, the way his brother always did, minus the showiness. "Excellent, add that to the list, would you?"

"Of course." The sales lady rushed forward to relieve Apollo of the weighty burden of a shirt and a cream color-ed vest and added it to a growing stack of clothes on the counter.

Kristoph spun around to examine another section of newly in-season clothes. The shop he had chosen for this little shopping expedition of theirs was one situated right around the corner from what used to be Tres Bién, but had long since went out of business. Apparently, the owner had moved his store over to L.A a good number of years back, good riddance. Since then the whole street had been replaced by boutiques, one by one, and was now where the pink of the ton, or rather, the elite of the city shopped. He plucked at a shirt and held it up in front of Apollo, and frowned in concentration.

"Um sir, really I don't think it's necessary." Apollo muttered from behind the garment.

"Of course it is, you don't have any decent suits." He flicked a spot of dust off the shirt and frowned.

The boy looked blank. "But I already have two outfits."

"Which is I'm sorry to say, inadequate." He commented bluntly, and held up another shirt to cover Apollo's hurt face.

"Oh, okay." he mumbled.

He swept through the store a second time, attacking racks of clothing one at a time while Apollo, obviously discomfited, stood awkwardly at a corner.

_Poor little baby, aren't you pitiful?_ he uttered a mental exclaim. _Taken out of your element, but wait! Isn't this what you always wanted? But of course, reality is so much different than dreams, isn't it? _ He could have laughed aloud at the irony of it all.

"Here," he handed a pair of black gloves to the sales girl. He looked at Apollo, who was trying the best he could to melt into the wallpaper, desperately trying to ignore the stares and whispers of the couple of off-duty sales girls crowding behind a pink curtain dividing the shop. He paused. Something stirred in him, even if he didn't know it. Deciding that he had enough for today he nodded at the sales girl again. "That is all. Pack them up and send it to my address, as well as the bill."

Apollo looked up hopefully from where he was standing like a boy in detention. "Are we done?"

"Yes...For now."

"Oh, can we go back now?" Puppy eyes.

"No."

His face looked like a burst balloon.

"Now, we must dine," Kristoph announced. Apollo followed him out of the building like a kicked puppy.

* * *

Apollo looked down at the massive amount of silverware in front of him – including three different kinds of knives and two kinds of forks alone, and that's not even counting the spoons and other unrecognizable forms – and looked at him haplessly from above his juicy (bleeding, if you ask Apollo.) steak.

"Uh. Help?"

Kristoph cocked an eyebrow at him. "Yes?"

" I uh...Which knife am I supposed to use?"He pointed at the food and when Kristoph didn't comment, he tried to explain. "To you know, " He made wild gestures that Kristoph presumed to mean carve. He pointed at the correct one and sipped his tea, enjoying the show Apollo was unintentionally putting on for him. Watching him struggled even to do something as simple as butter his toast was amusing. Hell, scratch that. It was_ fun_. Almost (but not quite) read-Gramarye-files-all-over-again fun.

"...It's like...performing surgery, not eating." Apollo muttered under his breath.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Uh, nothing, sir." He bit his lips in a sheepish expression at being caught.

Kristoph raised another eyebrow. "Come now, be a man - out with it it."

"I was just thinking sir, that you obviously need to be a brain surgeon in order to eat in the city."

"Oh, but you can eat fast food perfectly fine without having to be a brain surgeon. In fact, there's one right around the corner." he suggested innocently.

"Can we....?" Apollo trailed off hopefully.

"No." He smirked smugly. Apollo groaned and went back at the steak, eventually giving up on using the right tool for the right job and ended up trying to saw through his beef with a butter knife and sheer willpower and a frowning forehead.

* * *

Two boutiques and three accessory outlets later, Kristoph was impressed by the tenacity of the Justice boy. They had walked all day long around the city since they were practically going into every shop and it seemed rather impractical to get into the car just to move down one shop lot. So instead, they opted – of course, it was all Kristoph's decision, since if it was Apollo's choice to make, they would be snuggled back at home – to walk down streets after streets of shops – stopping here for some flowers, stopping there for some chocolate.

He was impressed, he admitted. If it was Klavier, he would have refused to continue a long time ago and ran off to a bar to have a drink – non-alcoholic, of course, until he reaches his birthday – and flirt with any present girls. Instead, Apollo had lugged around what items they bought from shops that didn't do shipping services without a single word of complain passing his lips. Quite like a loyal, steadfast donkey, Kristoph thought, but not unkindly. Behind him, Apollo spoke.

"Sir, can we stop now? I'm kind of tired."

Ah, here comes the magic question. What a good thing he had a magical answer too.

"No," he said simply, continuing down the sidewalk.

"I'm really- excuse me--" Apollo shouldered pass a broad walking man who took up almost the entire path. "tired. Can we at least take a rest?"

Obviously he was tired, Kristoph could hear him huffing a little with the exertion needed to keep up with him. He himself wasn't tired of course, since he hadn't carried a pound worth of shopping bags today.

"Not now, Justice, there's this shop that I really must go to."

"You've been saying that for the past hour,_ sir_." Apollo muttered, hurrying after him. There was just enough emphasis on the 'sir' word to make it seem rebelliously polite.

"Just a little more."

"You've been saying that too, the whole day. In fact, you've already said it five times." _Wow, he's counting?_ Kristoph was unwillingly impressed.

"I promise this is the last one. Ariadoney just had a new line for the winter collection and---"

A thud from behind cut him off.

_He wouldn't dare...Would he?_

He turned around. Apollo had dumped his things right there in the middle of the road and stood between them, arms folded across his chest with a mutinous expression on his face.

"I said, I'm tired sir."

"And_ I_ said that this is the last one we're going in to." Kristoph snapped back. Really, he might even mean that. He glared at the boy, he glared back, antennas shaking from the effort of the scowl on his face.

"Then maybe you should go into this last shop of yours alone sir, because I'm. Really. Tired." He announced.

"You dare?" Kristoph narrowed his eyes at Justice. The nerve of the boy shocked him – no one had talked back to him since Klavier left the country.

Apollo raised his chin and glared back at him. " I dare, sir."

" You know there's a word for this? It's called in-dis-ci-pline." He enunciated just to get the point across that thick forehead of his.

" There's also a word for what you've been making me do all day Mr. Gavin and it's called Child Labour."

**_-Staredown-_**

"You are just about the most ungrateful boy I've ever seen--" Kristoph snarled.

"Don't take your anger out on me, especially since I didn't do anything to deserve being treated like that." the boy retorted.

It was like high noon in an old cowboy film, except they were shooting killer glares at each other instead of bullets. Few would be able to vouch convincingly that the bullets are deadlier. No doubt it must look strange to any passerbys – an angry suited man glaring at an even angrier boy stuffed in a tucked in shirt surrounded by paper bags.

As sudden as it came, the anger left him and he gave a defeated sigh.

Apollo was right, he had dragged him around all day just to punish him for this strange twist of fate that had somehow trapped them both and twisted around them like an anaconda. It was petty - he was ashamed to admit it, but it was – but it was his way of hitting back at that fate's face, by putting Apollo through this.

"Alright, you win." He sighed. "It's just...A lot to take in in a day, alright? I'm not very comfortable with change."

Apollo nodded at him. No hint of gloat on his face like Kristoph had expected. It seems this boy wasn't as petty as him.

"So what do you want, do you want a rest? We can head home if that's what you want." Kristoph directed the question at the boy.

Apollo considered this for a moment, staring at a line on the floor. He raised his head a moment later and asked, still straight-faced. "I get to choose where we go?"

"Yes..." Kristoph trailed off uncertainly. He didn't like the smile dawning on Apollo's face.

Which grew wider in the next second.

"Then I have the perfect place we can go to have fun."

* * *

Apollo's idea of fun, as it was, was to – he did not believe he would ever meet someone with an idea of fun like that, but there he was, in the flesh – play Pacman. This was announced to an astounded Kristoph Gavin, who, had he been a little less dignified and a little more emotional, would have let his jaw dropped right there or hit the ground in a dead faint.

He wouldn't, by any chance, be willing to go alone? Kristoph had suggested weakly but no, Apollo pointed out that he had said "Yes" to the statement "I get to choose where **WE** go." and drat the boy, he had read one too many law thrillers and spotted that statement head on, so Kristoph had no choice but to drop all their things at home and sped off in the driver's seat with Apollo barking orders behind him. The boy had seen a shop with an arcade machine with Pacman in it, and like a dog at a bone, he wouldn't stop gnawing at it. It was Kristoph's turn to trail after him like a kicked dog.

"How do you even PLAY this?" He had announced with disgust at the machine, it's once sparkling fluorescent light had been replaced with a dim glow from a half dead light bulb.

"Simple!" Apollo announced, and after slotting in a coin and kicking the machine he pointed at the screen, which had a gash right through the middle but whose graphics were still visible. "You control Pacman, which is the yellow thing by the way, and you eat up all the dots – you eat them by moving over them by the way, in case you don't know (he didn't) – and if you finish all the dots you progress to the next round. If you bump into a ghost though, you lose a live. Lose three lives, and it's game over." he explained.

"Um, I don't suppose I'm allowed to go home if I suffer a game over?" he tried.

Apollo just gave him a long-suffering look. "You can have that machine over there." He pointed at another similar arcade game machine beside it.

So with a long-suffering face himself, he wiped the layer of dust off the control and peered outside the shop from the glass on the door. Okay, no one he knew was within eyesight. If anyone saw him playing on an arcade machine, he rather thought he'll die of shame. After spraying germ-killers all over the control and having Apollo and the shopkeeper glaring at him he put his hands down onto the machine, and started the game.

It was surprisingly addictive.

Not at first of course. All he did was to run his yellow thing into the bullet shaped things and watch the game over letters flash again and again to kill time. But then he took a peek at Apollo next to him, and the boy was running through the levels like breeze. He passed at least a half dozen levels before finishing his three lives and sheepishly announced he wasn't quite warmed up yet, then peered at Kristoph's screen and seeing the game over, gave him a look of haughty disdain foreign to his face.

"Noobs." He stated with a self-righteous nod.

That got Kristoph all riled up. Hell, it was just a stupid video game. If a geeky, pasty 16-year-old can do it, why can't he? So he went back to his game and decided that this time – no more dying for fun – it was time to get serious and navigated the yellow thing around at the dots.

The first time he couldn't even pass level one.

The seventh time he tried, he managed, barely to scrap by to level with one life intact.

The twelfth(? ) (He lost count.) time he managed to get all the way to level three before dying.

After that, he lost count. All he knew was that he'd do anything – anything at all – to get those dots and eat up those ghosts. He and Apollo stood side by side, surely the weirdest sight since creation – two grown man growling in frustration and cheering whenever they made it to the next round. Before he knew it, two whole hours had passed and the sun was already setting outside the tiny little shop. He didn't notice, and it was Apollo who had to remind him that it was getting late.

"I think you've struggled quite valiantly already, sir. I hereby forgive you for making me lug around those bags for the whole day." he smiled at Kristoph. Not the calculated kinds that Kristoph was used to getting from other lawyers but a genuine, happy smile.

"Just a moment Justice – I've almost finished all the-- ARGH!!!!'He shouted and kicked at the machine. His cookie -he had come to think of the yellow thing as a cookie – had just died. "That, was your fault Justice, you shouldn't have interrupted me."

"If it pleases you sir, it wouldn't have made a difference. You were all out-maneuvered anyway."

"I was not," Kristoph grunted.

Apollo smiled at him then poked a finger at Kristoph's hair, all the shyness from earlier that day forgotten. "I think it's best we head home, Mr. Gavin. Your hair's getting frizzled."

Alarmed, Kristoph angled at the black background of the pacman starting screen to get a reflection of his head to determine the exact damage of his hair from all that gaming. Apollo laughed at him.

"My hair is getting droopy too. Let's go."

Kristoph nodded, and together they left the shop, walking in the dusky evening sky towards their car, arguing about the best way to reach level five without losing a single life as the stars slowly peeked out one by one.

* * *

Note : In case you were wondering about the chapter title, I named it after the action of trading a pawn that has reached the opposite end of the chess board for another captured piece. Three guesses who the pawn is. And I chose "rook" because that's how I see a rook/ castle – a steadfast and loyal piece that will defend the king. That's how I see Apollo, a straight-laced, loyal person who will defend what he believes is true. That's my impression of him anyway. I don't think it takes much to guess who my king is either.

Note 2 : I originally planned Apollo to make Kristoph play Grand Theft Auto but in the end decided that it seemed out of character for Apollo to demand a playstation since there's no way Kristoph would have one. So yeah, I thought of arcade machines as the only plausible thing, and I really don't know any games on it, since I don't do much arcade, so I chose the safest one – Pacman. You'll never go wrong with the yellow cookie.


	5. V : In between dreams

**Note **: One might argue I have a tendency to OOC characters into situations for the sake of humour. Well, that's true, but I'll like to argue that this is pre-law school Apollo. So he might uh, have more sense of humour? *koff* I have many excuses *koff* (Phoenix didn't have much of it before he lost his job either anyway, so there!)

* * *

_-And the seasons, they go round and round; and the painted ponies go up and down;_

_ We're captive on the carousel of time;_

_ We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came-_

***

**V **:_ In between dreams._

It didn't take long for Apollo to settle down completely in the Gavin household – it was always such a simple thing to move on to an easier time- though he had taken an entire week to figure out Mr. Gavin's apartment - which although called an apartment, was really a penthouse occupying the entire upper floor of his building – and stopped getting lost. The apartment had six bedrooms alone, and two of them were used as a storage area for Mr. Gavin's files. The remaining four were his mentor's bedroom, two guest rooms and one – his room now – strangely more furnished room.

He found the place homey, though he would never dare to mention that word to Kristoph. He would probably quickly refurbish his entire household to boast something less plain than...Homey. It wasn't homey in the strictest sense of course, - it was actually kind of stuff really - it sported it's own office and it's living room was practically a hall for everything Victorian, but it was home to Apollo, and that was what made it homey. It had it's own fireplace – which can't actually be lit up - Apollo found out the hard way when he tried to light a fire for some indoor barbeque when Gavin was out and he nearly burned the house down – and was filled with bookshelves in rich dark brown that housed an array of thick tome-like books. There was even a tiny library slotted between Mr. Gavin's office and his bedroom and this became one of Apollo's favourite places in the world – He would spend most of his anti-social weekends curled up in the library with thick heavy books that smelled like slightly burned mushrooms.

Apollo was enrolled into a private school soon after he settled down, and he adapted as well as a malnourished boy could. That was the word that they used to describe him here in his new environment of preppy children and sky-scraping penthouses where the parents complete their day by signing up for yoga lessons or by earning more money to buy an apartment in an EVEN higher building – it was like height is a statute of your power and wealth and the higher you climb, literally, the more influential you are – and the children used their time shopping and going to piano classes.

In this world, no one used words like ugly or scrawny – it was an elite world, an upper-class world – you don't use such common and coarse terms. If you speak, and you will because they _will _speak to you, you must do it with an accent of a country at least 5 thousand miles away, and even then, only the accent is noted and not your voice because they care very little for what you have to say and they care even lesser for what you thought. They spoke only to hear their own voices; so Apollo learned to say very little.

Nonetheless, he voiced his surprise when Mr. Gavin had introduced him to their neighbours and his classmates - he can't in good conscious think of them as friends – as his nephew. He had asked him why he had done that, but all he received was a distracted smile.

"I don't want to explain to them about the adoption, that's all. You must understand, this is a world of gossip – and single men do not usually want children, much less adopt them – and I don't want them to rave like bees in May behind our backs with their incessant questions."

And that was the end of the issue.

There would be no question to answer from the curious bystander, but what about _his_ question? Apollo thought. _Why HAD he adopted him? _It can't be for sheer charm. He wished he was gullible enough to believe that Gavin really had adopted him for a little company like he said, but he always had that nagging feeling that something was out of the picture – like a commonplace fairytale - everything seems so perfect that you are keen to take it at face value, but then you push at it a little, and out comes a layer of dirt hidden under it's canvas.

He ignored the feeling – there was no way he would be able to get a straight answer out of Mr. Gavin anyway. If there was one thing he had learned about Gavin after a whole month there, it was that Gavin was slippery. He was like an eel that can wiggle himself out of any question you put at him or any situation you put against him. He answered questions like it was some kind of game of chess – telling you what he was doing would put everything into jeopardy. That was the only thing about him that annoyed Apollo. That and his formal way of calling him Justice, but he would learn to cope.

Other than that, their lives were comfortable – and happy, dare he say happy? - ones. Gavin went about being slippery in his firm and then return home to be even more slippery with Apollo's questions. Then they go out and have dinner, and Apollo despair over the French menus, or Kristoph despair over the cholesterol content of an oily burger, and life went on.

* * *

By Spring the following year, Apollo was snowed under with work. At school they had decided that it was better that exams be abolished after a long winded speech from the principal going "... because it is the advent of a time where we must progress and change with the wheel that always turn and the smile of time, and such we must..." blablabla. Apollo tried to listen - he really did - but no avail. He zoned out after the first twenty minutes. What he DID understand after sifting through all the flowery prose was that exams are officially gone because many of the students claimed that it increased their "stress" level – _WHAT stress, _Apollo wanted to ask?_ Oh, you mean, that stress you feel when you fold paper planes out of the exam timetable and go to yet ANOTHER party? __**THAT **__stress?_? - and their grades were handed out instead by completing projects.

There were only about two million projects for every exam they had to take and everyone cheered because now they didn't have to do anything more than writing down what needs to be done and handing it to their father's secretary's secretary. Real back-breaking work. Of course, Kristoph had no such secretary's secretary for Apollo to hand his work to. He did most of his work himself and only had a secretary for the tedious after-trial paperwork and a couple of juniors in the firm – and even if he did (this was said with a censorious frown) he would never allow Apollo to fob off his work on someone else like that.

And so Apollo endured and did all his work himself. He often got a B for his work, since his obviously can't compete with work done by a professional adult and was often overshadowed by them, but he was satisfied with it. That was, at least, until Gavin decided that he should use his one minute of free time a day to be his secretary's secretary.

This Apollo decided was manual labour, and was most vocal about it, leading to cold wars between Kristoph and him which involved Apollo trying to ignore Gavin's subtle taunts and failing, then yelling at the top of his lungs with Gavin snapping back at him coolly before losing his temper too, then the both of them would shout at each other over a blaring stereo to stop their neighbours from hearing. It didn't work, their voices being louder than the music, and social care came knocking on their doors with a therapist in tow. They learned to compromise, and Apollo did Kristoph's paperwork and Kristoph refrained from handing it to him when he had projects, and spring became summer.

* * *

Apollo slammed the door to the apartment shut with a vengeance. The – _-orsomethingi'_

_ –_ door bounced back from the frame back into it's initial position and Apollo was forced – after much swearing – to push it back into position gently, since it refused to shut otherwise.

"Bad day?" Kristoph asked, reclining in his favourite chair, one hand swirling a glass of red wine gently and the other clasping a rolled up newspaper. Bach assaulted Apollo's ears from the new stereo – _A Music Processing Unit, Apollo, not a stereo, as you so unkindly put it_. Apollo resisted the urge to put something through the speakers.

" That rat pie Pierre WhatsHisName the Third decided he was going to become a famous hair stylist for the stars in the future. DON'T--" He yelled to cut Kristoph off when he opened his mouth to ask - "--ASK. I don't want to tell, and you don't want to know."

As a matter of fact, Pierre had decided to cut off Apollo's famous antennae and had only narrowly missed it because Apollo woke up from where he was taking a nap in the library in time. His antennas were now one whole inch shorter. Apollo had flew into a rage unlike those seen before in the school's good halls, according to his detention officer.

"And god, what is that playing? It sounded like someone died and that's his enemy's joyful eulogy. Jeez."

Kristoph smiled at the description, and took a drink from the wine glass. " That's _Das Wohltemperierte Klavier_ actually, and that would be Prelude and Fugue in E minor. Very cheerful, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I'm feeling all cheered already. " Apollo threw his empty bag across the room into a couch and dumped his books on the table. " Last day of school and oh! Guess what kind of wonderful summer vacation present they gave me?" He adopted a falsetto, mimicking the high pitched squeak of his French teacher. "_Oh no, Apollo! Not you! Your grades are the worst! Here, why don't you take these books home and do a little revising? And I expect an essay on how educational you find it and remember now, in French_!" He tch-ed and slammed his palm onto the offending book. "My grades aren't even the worst! I got a C for my overall and that's a passing grade! That stupid Pierre flunked all his assignments and what did he get? A pat on the back and NO ASSIGNMENTS. And he's_ FRENCH_. You would think he can at least pass that, but did he? _NO. HE. DID. NOT_." He accompanied the words with a blow to the book each.

"Really Justice, if you continue abusing that book, you're going to have to buy a new one for the good professor. And it's going to come out of your allowance."

"How can you stay so calm!? My life is ruined!"

"Teenagers... " he sighed. "Your life isn't ruined, Apollo, and in answer to your question, it's because it doesn't concern me."

"Well, it should. Now I'm not going to be able to help you with ANY work the whole Summer. NO work at all." He stressed the 'no' until it sounded like 'Neuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu' just to get the point across.

"Then I will pay you neuuuuuuuuuuuuu money at all the whole summer then," was Kristoph's smirking answer.

"I hate you." Apollo snapped.

"Now, now, Justice - Shame on you, such blasphemous thoughts running across that forehead of yours! Is that any way to repay the kindness I have showered upon your self?"

"ARGH!!" he yelled, pulling at his antennas like he wanted to pull himself up by it. "Why did I get myself adopted? I should have just dug a hole and buried myself in it." He muttered and headed off to shower. The hot water calmed him down considerably. When he came out, Kristoph was staring at the crimson liquid in his glass pensively, seemingly mesmerized by the movements of the liquid.

"Had any interesting cases lately?" Apollo offered by way of small talk. Kristoph's cases were always fascinating – and they were always amazingly simple too – witnesses always seem to confirm the defendant's alibi, evidences always side against the defense. Even the testimonies were airtight in their favour – so much so in fact that whispers have started recurring recently that Kristoph was a fraudulent lawyer. Apollo didn't believe that of course –like the poem went,_ his wife ate no lean –_ Kristoph could do no evil in Apollo's eyes. It just wasn't _in _him.

"Not really."

"Not even any planned for the summer?"

"No, and you make it sound like some kind of television program." Kristoph smiled at him and he grinned back, dropping himself into the chair opposite his, separated by a carved wooden table with curving legs and Vongole curled around it. The dog opened one eye went Apollo sat down, then closed it when she saw it was just Apollo. The retriever had never liked him, and had been extremely vocal, not to mention violent about it. At least she didn't bite him any more.

Kristoph swirled the wine some more, then announced. "I was actually thinking of closing up the firm for the summer, actually."

"Huh. Okay, so what are you-- wait. WHAT!?" Apollo goggled at the man. That was like announcing snow was actually made out of frozen prehistoric mud. Kristoph was, while not exactly a workaholic, at least enough of one that he didn't take longer breaks than the odd day or two.

"Your surprise is hardly flattering, Justice. I might be tempted to think that you think me a slave driver." he smiled at Apollo's reaction.

"B-b-but. But why? I mean, you haven't taken a break more than two days in a row for as long as I have been here! A-are you feeling alright, sir?" He stuttered, flummoxed, waving his hands around this way and that as though it would make it seem more believable, or to wave off an encroaching illusion. He still had a habit of calling Kristoph 'sir', even after being here for half a year, a fact that Kristoph had never bothered correcting.

"Hmm...That's a very excellent question." He lowered his wineglass to let Vongole take a sniff at it since she was eye-ing his drink, then pulled it back up and drank it in a silent taunt at his dog. It whined. " I was thinking we should go for a vacation, actually."

"A....vacation?"

"Yes. You're sitting for your SATs at the end of this year, aren't you? And once that's over you'll enroll in a law school, and there'll be hardly any time for you to have fun. So I decided we should have a little vacation – think of it as a gulp of air before being pushed into the deep end of the pool."

"Hmm..." Apollo contemplated the idea, ignoring Gavin's disturbing image of college life. "Well, I suppose so. Where are we going, though, and how am I going to finish my summer assignments in time?"

"Oh, you'll think of something, Justice, you always do." He sipped his drink mildly.

"Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence. How about something other than confidence, like help?" Apollo suggested sarcastically, then reminded him. "You still haven't tell me where we are going."

"Ah yes...I was thinking..."

"Yes...?" Apollo leaned a little more forward.

"I was thinking maybe...Hawaii."

"Ha...waii?"

"Yes, Hawaii. I was thinking Milan of course, since Ariadoney has just released an accompanying line for it's Summer Wardrobe Collection and it's being previewed there, but it's rather droll - it's just a repetition of last year's you see (Apollo didn't see, but he had learn that you don't interrupt Kristoph's rant about Ariadoney or nail polish in general and survive) - and I hear that Hawaii is really quite beautiful so...I say, are you alright, Justice?" Kristoph peered at him curiously. "You've gone quite an ashen colour, Apollo. Are you sure you wouldn't like some wine to uh...Put the colour back on your cheeks?"

Apollo, who had gone quite quiet, looked at Kristoph with terror-stricken eyes. "Are you serious? We're really going to Hawaii? Beaches and all?"

"....Ah, yes...?"

"And I'm going to have to...swim?"

"Well, that's generally what people do at beaches. They swim, Apollo."

And Apollo knew what true fear was.

* * *

"I can't swim." He announced.

"Of course you can, Justice, don't be silly. Just get into the pool and start floating."

"I can't."

"I told you, I'm not going to let the money used to transport you here go to waste. You will swim, Apollo, or I will push you into the pool."

"Do I have to, sir?"

"Yes."

"But I really can't!"

"In five minutes, my presence will be required in a video conference with my associate. I suggest you start swimming, Apollo. Fast."

"I told you! I can't swim! There's a pool near the institute and I've tried but I can't even --"

A splash, and something heavy falling into the water.

"Tut, tut, Justice. Times up. I really must be going now."

"H-Hey wait, MR. GAVIN-- a-at least tell the lifeguard-GRRPPP-H-hey, HELP! I'M _DROWNING_!!" he bellowed after the reclining figure walking off. When the figure was nearly at the door into the hotel, he turned around at the splashing Apollo and sighed. "Apollo, that pool is only four feet deep."

Apollo looked down. His feet touched the floor of the pool.

Oh.

* * *

"You look ridiculous with that."

"Better than looking dead."

Kristoph stared at the tube hanging limply off Apollo's waist.

"I think I prefer death, actually."

"I formally request you to shut the hell up, sir."

"Tsk, tsk."

Silence.

"Oh for god's sake, you're an embarrassing sight. Take that thing off."

"No way!"

"Really, I _insist._"

"I said no! I'll drown without the thing!"

"You're on the beach Apollo, you won't drown in sand, will you? Take the damned thing off."

"I said, no! What if suddenly a tidal wave hits or something!?"

A growl of exasperation. "There aren't going to be tidal waves. Take. It. Off!"

"I refuse!"

"Okay, fine! I'll take it off you myself!"

"Hah! I'll like to see you try!"

Kristoph narrowed his eyes at him, then smirked. "Alright, I won't take it off you. I'll MAKE you take it off yourself."

"Hah again! As I said, I'll like to see you try!" Apollo thrusted his stomach forwards and poked the front of the tube in Kristoph's direction and taunted him. "Well, how are you going to do it?"

"...Like this." Kristoph moved forward and dug his sharpened nails into the soft surface of the tube, leaving holes in the rubber.

A wheezing sound filled the air.

"And now you have seen me try."

He walked off a second time towards the beach chairs, leaving Apollo with a tube rapidly turning flabby and a godsmacked expression.

* * *

"Apollo, have you seen my glasses?"

"Yes."

"Where are they?"

"Somewhere. I'm not giving them back to you."

Kristoph stared at him. "Apollo, are you_ hiding _my glasses? How _old_ are you, four?"

"Well if you don't have them you can't make me swim! You can't even see far enough to push me into the pool!"

"And what gave you the impression that I cannot see beyond my own toes?"

"Well for starters, there's the fact that you bump into the bedside table every morning."

"...I do not."

"You do. And you make me get you your glasses, instead of getting it yourself, when they're right in front of you."

"...I knew sharing a room with you is a bad idea."

Kristoph sighed.

"It would seem you have won..."

"Hah! Haha! I win!"

"....Such a good thing I have a spare pair."

Kristoph dug into his pocket and retrieved a box and put the gold-framed glasses back onto his face.

"You have a spare pair?" Apollo asked, incredulous.

"Yes, obviously. What was it that you said? Ah yes, I win. At every turn, I might add."

* * *

Apollo chewed his toast and pulled at it. It tasted like rubber. He bite one end and tug at the bread again. It stretched further than he would have thought was possible for a bread. For a five star hotel, the food sure tasted terrible. The tea, Mr. Gavin had pronounced divine, but the toast? Apollo wouldn't pay half a dollar for it back in the city. He swooped forward and hooked the menu up with a spare finger and looked at the price.

_Holy mother of God. Three bucks?_

He could buy five whole packs of instant noodles for that._ Rich people..._He set off a torrent of mental grumbles and continued his breakfast in silence, punctuated only by Kristoph's voice, talking on the phone.

"Yes...And you are to return...?"

"Of course not....however...."

"No, I'm afraid you won't be able to." Whatever Kristoph was saying, Apollo had a funny feeling that he was lying through his teeth about it.

"My house is not a hotel, Klavier. Get a room in one."

"...I see. Will you take up the bar again?"

"Alright. I'll see you soon." He snapped the phone shut irritably and strolled back into the room from where he had been talking on the balcony.

Apollo offered him a slice of the rubb- toast. Kristoph waved it off and sat himself down opposite him, stirring the tea.

"Who was that?" he asked.

Kristoph hesitated before answering.

"It's no one of importance." Apollo knew an evasion when he was given one.

"You mentioned Klavier..?" He offered. Kristoph frowned at him from behind the tea cup.

"It's not nice to eavesdrop on people's conversation, Justice. It's downright rude, in fact."

Apollo blushed, put in his place. Kristoph wasn't just slippery, he knew the exact balance of outrage and unwillingness to deflect a prodding question. They continued their breakfast in silence. A maid knocked on the door, handing them a plate of eggs and bacon Kristoph ordered. They commented on how terrible the toast was and lapse back into silence.

It was their last day of vacation there, since it had already been two whole weeks spent on the island and Kristoph had to return to work sooner or later, and they hadn't made any plans as to what they were going to do that day. Apollo knew what he was going to do once he returned to New York though – he'll try to find out who this Klavier is. After all, Kristoph had so many secrets, and he was getting damned tired of it. Secret this, secret that. Everything about him was sealed and locked up and the key was thrown away, probably into a lava pit. He was unfailingly secretive about a lot of things, clamming up like a venus flytrap that had gotten a prey every time he was asked a question. Well no more. As soon as he got back to the city, he was going to find out at least one thing he tried to hide, even if it turns out to be something unimportant.

"More toast?"

"No thanks," Kristoph replied. Seeing Apollo's pained expression, he added. "You can just leave it there. It tastes horrid anyway."

Apollo looked at the toast. Then he thought of the price tag. He ate it.

"By the way, what are we doing today?"

"Hmm."

"Hmm? I wasn't aware there was an activity called hmm-ing. Unless you've just invented it of course." He was irritable. So sue him.

"You and your smart mouth...Well, I was thinking that since we have already been in the sun for almost the entire week and you of course, look rather like a charred potato..." Apollo winced at the reminder of his sunburn since he had adamantly refused to go into any body of water and hadn't brought his own sunblock, and of course Kristoph wouldn't share his. He liked to punish people that way. "I was thinking we can stay indoors today."

"You mean, just laze around?"

"Playing pool, actually."

"Oh, okay." Apollo muttered, not exactly big on the idea of playing pool. Kristoph kicked his butt at it every time, since he didn't even know the rules of the game properly.

"You have a better idea?"

"Well actually....I downloaded Pacman into my phone yesterday." Kristoph looked up from the newspaper he had started perusing with a gleam in his eye. "I see...Shall we have a few rounds then, before we go down for pool?"

A shudder raced through Apollo at the mention of the word "pool". It hasn't been a kind word to him this past week. "Sure. That was what I was going to suggest actually. Hand me your phone, I'll download it into your phone too."

"Of course, but before that..." Kristoph pushed the chair back and walked towards his part of the shelves, pulling out an elegant binded book with purposely ripped page ends to give it a classic, aged look. "Here you go."

Apollo took the book from him – it looked like a grimoire from a story about magic with it's deep red cover and golden words sewn onto it to form some foreign looking words. _Gerechtigkeit_ , they spelt.

"What is it?"

"It's a journal. I thought you would like one. You can use it to record down things you want to remember."

"Thank you." he said, and mean it. It was a journal, but it was more than he had ever received and more than that – it was something from Kristoph. That made him treasured it.

"What does this say?" he asked, running his fingers through the fine golden letters.

"That...is for you to find out." Kristoph smiled at him, a gentle, kind smile, without the smugness that tainted his usual smile. Then it transformed into a grin. "Ready to be beaten flat in Pacman?"

Apollo grinned and stood, holding his new journal. "Not going to happen any time soon, sir!" He laughed and gave a mock salute.

* * *

_Dear diary,_

_Mr. Gavin told me to record down the things I want to remember in this journal. Well, I have something I want to remember – today. We ended up spending half the day playing pacman and the other half playing pool. It's been the most fun I had since well, forever - I actually got beaten by him once in Pacman today, and I've never actually seen him as happy as he did when he beat me in Pacman. Maybe I'll let him win more often. _

_We've already packed up our bags. Tomorrow, we head back to the city and things go back to normal. Normal life, routine, you know, normal stuff._

_Tomorrow, I'll start investigating who this Klavier is – it's not much, but I'm hoping to start finding out what I can about Mr. Gavin – he's keeping way too many of them for his own good - A person can't live like that. It's like a snail with it's shell. Tomorrow, I'll start my epic battle – Me against Mr. Gavin's secret. _

_But for now, for today...I think I'll simply remember this day forever.  
_

_Apollo Justice._

_P.S I feel strange writing this using a normal pen. I feel like I should use a quill instead. Does that make sense?  
_

* * *

Note : _Gerechtigkeit means justice. At least, according to Google Translate.  
_


	6. VI : The silence have ears

Note: Thank you Alice for reviewing so faithfully! This chapter is two days late I think, since life is a little busy. I'm sorry, even though I don't think that many people are waiting for it with bated breath. So here you go, for those who ARE - Just a little something extra.

* * *

_If you utter my name I disappear; What am I?_

_Silence;_

_***  
_

_**VI **:__ The silence have ears._

Despite Apollo's vow to dig out as much as he can about Kristoph, Kristoph's past and every damned thing that he tried to hide from him – real life unfortunately, had other plans for him. The moment they returned to the city, both found themselves buried under a mountain of work determined to choke them to the point of suffocation. Apollo returned to find e-mails sent from the professors from his school, sending out summer assignments like they were pies in a cake convention; Kristoph returned to an office mailbox stuffed full with mail from clients and for a while, it completely slipped Apollo's mind about any Klavier or such at all, and if there were things to remind him, it was only the occasional phone call for Kristoph that he was reluctant to discuss, and slipping out in the middle of the night to do god knows what. At one point, he even suspected Kristoph to be some kind of closet alcoholic.

When school reopened, it was no different than his hectic summer – SATs were right around the corner and everyone was running around like headless chicken to prod and pull and poke the students into shape for their – once again, I cannot stress how important this exam is in determining your future and your path to greatness, blabla – impending exams. Even Kristoph stopped handing his paperwork to Apollo to be done.

What free time Apollo had was spent buried in their own personal library, pouring through Kristoph's inches-thick books and reviewing the court files Kristoph gave him – He was going to be a lawyer, so he might as well started studying right about now. The works frankly, bore him. Law was not all about courtroom battles and trials and shouting and pointing fingers – there was one hell of other things to do too – things no one really wanted to talk about them because they're not as glamorous as shouting and pointing fingers. There were things like real estate law, where you go through clause after clause of loopholes and traps designed to snare you – hell, there was even a specific book just to study senior citizens' rights, and the laws that protect and govern them. These sent Apollo to sleep at a speed faster than any bedtime story could possibly achieve.

He had decided one thing – if he was going to be a lawyer, his first choice was to be a criminal lawyer. If he was stuck behind a desk doing domestic law, he thought he'll age faster than Kristoph.

With that in mind, he studied like heck for his exams and often fell asleep in the study room, and Kristoph would put a blanket over him and turn up the heater when the weather started getting cold. It was a comfortable routine, and it ended with his exam – in which he was most especially nervous, not sleeping a wink at all the day before. He managed to get an average score – not outstanding, because Apollo was not an outstanding or amazingly smart student, and he knows it. No, he made up with what talent he lacked by tripling his hard work – and Kristoph was pleased.

School resumed for a little while after the exams because it was a private institute, and as the principal was wont to say, they were a superior breed of people – so while the students apply to various colleges around the country, the continued attending school to learn extra lessons, depending on their future choice of profession. Future Law students, for example, started taking classes on the basics. This was the class of elite.

* * *

Apollo heard the click before he actually saw anything. It was a very silent click, but it was a very silent place, and if he had been sleeping like he ought to be he most definitely wouldn't have heard it. But instead of being deep in slumber like he was supposed to be, he was staring idly at the ceiling, thinking of all kinds of things. Random thoughts that flit and flirt like fairies from one to another, see-sawing between serious things like his future, what he was going to do once he became a genuine bona fide lawyer and silly thoughts like what Kristoph would look like if he choked on milk, and such and such.

And then he heard the click. He knew what it was – the door leading out of their apartment, placed right outside his room in the hallway had just been shut. He knew what would happen next too. Kristoph would stroll down the hall outside, get in the elevator, and leave the building shortly after it _ding_-ed on the ground floor, wrapped around in a large coat and shivering a little from the cold. Then his Ford would purr, and it would slide off on the snow-covered road with one powerful swoop and head off to destination unknown.

It had been like this for a couple of months already. Sometimes, Kristoph would leave earlier, around eight or so, and told him not to stay up. Then he'll come back in the middle of the night, slightly drunk, but not intoxicated – the aftereffects of a night of entertainment. Either that or he'll sneak out in the middle of the night like right now, sometimes after rummaging through their medicine cabinet. Apollo knew because he had heard it being opened and shut as quietly as possible when he had plastered his ear to the door. Maybe he was hurrying out to meet that Klavier of his? He sure seems defensive every time it was mentioned - and that had been what sparked Apollo into questioning his activities. Klavier he had found was a dead-end, but something else was up, and he intended to find out what it was.

Except he didn't have the guts. He was a coward, he knew. But some part of him wanted to maintain what their life was : Peaceful. He was afraid of uttering the first word to break the chain of silence. Of pushing the first chip in a chain of dominoes, and let loose a string of collapses. He was a coward. Chickenshit.

He pushed apart his white room curtains and peered down from the window. The window was covered with a layer of watery mist and he breathed on it, rubbing the water vapor off until it revealed a slice of glass clear enough to see what was happening below. The Ford's light turned on, and Apollo knew from experience Kristoph will probably sit in there for a few minutes waiting for the car to warm up thoroughly and the engine heated nicely. A few minutes. Enough for say, a person to get ready and follow him.

_Could he? Would he?_

Apollo pressed his face against the window. The blue silhouette shone directly below him, as though taunting him to do it.

No the question was not those._ Dare he?_

He knew if he was found out that Kristoph would be furious. All the trust and bond they managed to build in their odd relationship would go south. Maybe he'll even throw him out.

But he HAD to know. Apollo hated mysteries, and when he had them, he wanted to get to the bottom of them. Kristoph was a big puzzle – one that he wanted to figure out.

_He dared._

His decision made, he wasted no time in getting ready. He had already wasted enough time with his inner monologue – he grabbed at his thick woolen scarf hanging from the rack beside his bed and dashed out of his room, footsteps banging on the hard wooden floor. He didn't even bother taking the elevator – it'd take way too long, and it was only half a dozen floors anyway. It'd help him get his internal system warmed up sufficiently for the cold weather outside. He headed for the tiny garage in the apartment block, beside the mailboxes with several bicycles stashed in his and raised his. Then he started pedaling.

He was in luck. The moment he cycled out of the block, he heard the familiar purr of the Ford's engine – rather like that of a lazy cat, he'd always thought, and for some reason the image of a lazy cat always reminded him of Kristoph – and the quiet roar it emitted to announce it's departure. It started moving slowly along the road, Kristoph was apparently in no great hurry.

Apollo gave a silent thanks for the weather – it was snowing, not heavily enough to render him helpless, but just a light drizzle of white enough to provide a cover for Apollo. A person standing at the road side would surely see him, but the windshield of Kristoph's car was completely covered with the same thin layer of vapour like on his window, and he'd be hard press to see the road clearly – much less Apollo.

He silently cycled after him.

The Ford was moving at a leisurely pace, but even then Apollo had to cycle to keep up with the car. They rounded a block. A corner. Another corner. He followed the car this way and that for ten whole minutes before he realized that they had entered an area he had never seen before. It was a part of downtown, the places where no self-respecting 'elite people' would enter, or be seen in association with. It was the kind of place you would expect places operating the skin business, or the boob business. It definitely wasn't a place that Apollo, or Kristoph would frequent, that's one thing for sure. He wasn't even sure he could get back home without Kristoph's direction.

_What is he doing here anyway? Don't tell me, he's here for whores?_

Because if that was it, Apollo rather thought he'll prefer to return home. It was nice, the idea of digging into Kristoph's life – but if it meant that what he found out was that Kristoph was frequenting this district, he'd prefer ignorance. But Kristoph didn't stop at the bars, which at this time of the night were pretty full even on weekdays. The Ford ignored the buildings and their gaudy flashing lights and moved pass it with a quickened pace. Apollo cycled faster to keep up, panting a little and his breath clogged up the air with it's fog.

Out of the area then, and into the next few streets down, leaving the dimly lighted buildings behind. The bars had been in disrepair, but nothing compared to THIS part of town. It house rows of houses in tumbled conditions – to call them houses seem to insult the very word; they resembled nothing more than planks of wood and cement and salvaged parts of cars and other unidentifiable materials clobbered together to produce a shelter-like projection. Kristoph slowed down the car, and Apollo stopped his bicycle as the car rounded the corner. He pushed the bicycle along and peeked from the rough brick of the street corner and saw Kristoph getting out of the car.

The car clicked shut, and Kristoph got out of the car, walking over to the side of the street where one particularly ugly product of architectual was placed. The darkness settled down on the place now that the car's headlights have been turned off and Apollo had to squint his eyes hard to see what he was doing.

_"....Yes..."_

He thought he head someone speaking. Perhaps it was Kristoph. But who was he speaking to? The phone? He narrowed his eyes at the impregnable darkness and wished he had cat eyes. Then he saw movement in the darkness, and he saw that Kristoph really wasn't alone at all. There was another person – a man, from what it looks like, though it was hard to tell, since whoever it was was wrapped up and shapeless – standing on the pavement, and Kristoph was talking to him.

* * *

_Flashback._

_It wasn't, and isn't a pleasant memory. He was standing in class, after school. It was detention class, actually, and the class was empty except for a gang of especially unpleasant children who got in trouble together for playing a 'sophisticated' prank on a teacher. They were all sitting down on their chairs, some with legs propped up on the table, and some with them cross to imitate some illusion of dignity. Only Apollo was standing, because the only other chair not taken there had been covered with glue, and the rest were stack in a corner behind the biggest of the lot, and if he wanted one, he'd have to wrestle him for it._

_There were bullies everywhere. Even rich kids were bullies. It's only a matter of what kind of bully they were; elite or not. It almost made him wish he was back at the institute. He knew if Jacques was here, he'd help him, animosity or not. The stick kids stuck together._

_But Jacques wasn't here. And no one would stand up for a stick boy here._

_"So, Polliana, what's the deal with that uncle of yours?"_

_Apollo looked up from where he had stared determinedly at a spot made by a marker on the table. He had refused to rise to the bait, no matter what they said to him. If he hit them, he knew he would be expelled, and Kristoph would not be pleased at all._

_"We heard he's really not that great an attorney everyone's making him out to be, after all. You heard the rumours, haven't you?"_

_A question. With a hook. Of course they know he didn't know. Of course they wanted him to ask. To swing beside his shield for a moment to let them take a few jabs at him._

_"No." He took it.  
_

_Hook._

_"Well...I heard from my daddy's friend see. Nothing personal of course, but he thought it was strange you know, the way he keeps winning his trials, so he started looking into it himself. Guess what he found?"_

_"What did he found? That Mr. Gavin's all that better than him?"_

_Line._

_"Heh, like that's going to happen any time in this century. Uncle Davis is like the best defense attorney in the city. It's only because that precious Mr. Gavin of yours – who's a rat bastard, by the way - was forging evidence that he manages to beat Uncle Davis' record anyway."_

_Sinker._

_"You have no proof!" Apollo yelled at him._

_"Oh really? Well then explain to me why my uncle saw him driving in the middle of the night to the sewers of the city?"_

_"What the hell are you talking about? Why would Mr. Gavin be in the sewers?"_

_"Not literally, idiota. I mean the bad parts of the city. The SLUM. THAT sewer. The place where all the rubbish crawl, wanting a better slice of life than what filth like them deserve."_

_"Mr. Gavin wouldn't go there. He hates smelly places the most."_

_"Yeah? Well my uncle saw what he saw. Kristoph Gavin was loitering around the slums."_

_"Your uncle's a liar!"_

_"Why you-- How dare you? My uncle's a noble attorney, unlike that scum of an uncle of yours!"_

_"Shut the hell up!"_

_Apollo lunged at the boy, slashing at him with his fingers. He got pulled back by another friend._

_"Mr. Gavin would never resort to crooks to win a verdict. He's just not that low!"_

_"Yeah!? Then explain to me, why was he there, and not only in the slums, why was he talking to a FORGER, no less?" The boy shoved Apollo back. "Let's see you explain that!"_

_"You can say anything you want, do you even have proof that he really went there? And how would that uncle of yours know he's a forger, if he's not connected to the business, huh?"  
_

_The boy ignored the jab and pressed on. "Well what about you? Can you honestly vouch that that precious Gavin of yours doesn't leave his house in the middle of the night when you're sound asleep, fool?"_

_And he can't. Because of course he knew._

_"Y-You have no proof." He stammered.  
_

_All the boy did was laugh at him. His ears were ringing, from some kind of force unknown, like the sound you hear in your head in deep silence. But he heard the laugh anyway, and perhaps another from some part of himself._

_"Y-you have...You have no proof...." He whispered. And he could tell they didn't believe him, because he didn't believe it himself either._

* * *

The memory rushed back at him, like blood in his face, and he found himself grabbing the handles of his bicycle a little tighter. His fist a little stronger. Teeth a bit more clenched. The rumours, the tabloids, muttering on and on about how there was something more to Kristoph than meets the eye, that there was something more to his victories than just skill and composure – those were lies. Weren't they?

_There's no smoke without fire._

Stop it! He thought, clenching his teeth even tighter, so much so that he was afraid he might break his own jaw. It was just a man. Maybe an old client of Kristoph's that doesn't want much attention and he was just visiting him for old time's sake. Maybe he was Kristoph's lover. At this point, he'll accept anything short of the rumoured one.

His hands shook – from sheer nervousness or fear or anticipation, he'll never know. Perhaps a combination of all three? - and he stopped himself from shaking through sheer will. He poked a shivering ear out of the corner, trying to catch the a wiff of the conversation.

_"....Have you...cash..."_

_"Of course...."_

A sound of something opening, like a briefcase's latch. In the silence, it sounded like a gunshot.

_"........Here...."_

_"Excellent work....usual...."_

_"Uh-huh....scram already, dangerous place to be...."_

_"Of course, your concern is well..."_

_"...Just get lost...."_

And that was the end of the conversation, brief it was; Yet Apollo thought he had heard rather too much for his own good.

In the corner of his mind, he heard sounds of clicking steps, and he knew that Kristoph, having finished the meeting, would leave soon. Which meant that he would back up the car and use the way he took – Apollo's way. With a barely concious mind, Apollo pushed his bike into a darker dead-end alley and waited for Kristoph's car to pass._ Funny how a person can be all empty inside yet remained so vigilant, _a part of him sneered. _More vigilant in fact, than a normal Apollo would be._

He was beyond insults, even those from himself.

He watched silently as Kristoph, as predicted backed up the car and moved it along the road he had taken on his way in. He waited. _One. Two. Three. _Okay, it was time to follow, there should be reasonable distance between them now.

He climbed onto his bike, and started cycling behind Kristoph, his mind blank. Or maybe it was just processing so much that it can't tell what it's processing any more. Like an overclocked computer.

The only thing that he could comprehend as he cycled after Kristoph rapidly disappearing car and squinting into the darkness, following the lights of the car like a ghost would follow an angel's candle was this : Kristoph Gavin forges evidences.

* * *

_Flashback._

_Kristoph's laughter was bright and cheerful when Apollo told him about the accusation from the boy. He tilted his head backwards and laugh, and for some reason, odd though it is, it was a genuine one – not a self-concious chuckle, but a laugh. A genuine honest to goodness laugh, and it made Apollo grin too._

_"Well, all I can say is this Apollo – many people say many things, and if you were to believe them all, well I'm afraid you're looking at an alien in disguise on Earth, a secret communist supporter, as well as a person with a fetish involving carrots. Which I'm sorry to say, if you do, I will frown at your intellect indeed."_

_Apollo returned Kristoph's cheerful smile. "I know! It's just so ridiculous, isn't it?"_

_Kristoph nodded, still smiling. "It's funny how these things get started. You win a couple of cases in the row, and the judge starts getting berated for missing a conspiracy between the defense and the prosecution, and then the police are frowned upon by the city council – these things never get old. It's true for every great attorney out there."_

_It wasn't a brag, or a vain statement. It was the truth._

_Apollo nodded enthusiastically. "I wish I can explain it as well as you to him, sir."_

_"You needn't bother, Justice. Little people will think their little thoughts, if you were to be bothered by them all, you wouldn't lead a particularly happy life – just like that prosecutor a while back, Edgeworth."_

_Another nod. Apollo stared at the glass pane beside him, watching as the city sped by from the window of the car. "But just to make sure sir, you really don't forge evidence, right?"_

_From the mirror dangling haughtily above, he could see Kristoph cocking his head slightly with a smile. _

_"What do you think, Justice?"_

_He thought not, but he didn't miss the fact that he didn't answer his question either._

* * *

The apartment was just right around the corner, Apollo thought glumly. By now the shock of the discovery was a little over, and like many things left behind – it was empty. For now he felt nothing. Perhaps when he sneak back into his room, he would cry a tear or dozen to the death of the imaginary idol he worshiped so, but for now he felt nothing. Only nothing.

The Ford skidded pass the snow and bounded for the car garage behind the apartment. Apollo wheeled his bicycle to the side of the road – wait a minute or two to make sure that Kristoph had parked and was making his way back home – before pushing it back into the makeshift garage-storeroom of the block. He put the frozen bicycle back into it's place – on the floor, and rattled the chain softly when he locked the bicycle's wheel.

"Had fun tonight, Apollo?"

Apollo froze, his fingers paused in the action of pulling the key out of the keyhole. Slowly, he completed the action and turned around. The garage's outside was brighter than the inside, and standing at the doorway, with his face partially silhouetted and the light behind him casting him into shadow – was Kristoph Gavin.

"S-s-sir."

"Justice." Kristoph inclined his head in a polite greeting. Far too polite a greeting, with a smile that was so pleasant it borderlines on creepy. "How have you been tonight?"

"I a-ah, I've been cycling around the place. Can't sleep, you know."

"Oh really?" Kristoph smiled.

His smile was replaced by a savage sneer. "Not following people around, crawling in alleyways like the little sneak you are?"

"I-I--" Apollo tried to explain. Willed his brain into forming an explanation. For god's sake, he was supposed to be the injured party here! But when Kristoph Gavin looked at you with that sneer on his face, with hurt just lying thinly under that layer of anger, you can't help but feel like you're in the wrong.

"Y-You what? You couldn't sleep, so you decided that it would be a good idea to follow me around?"

Well, technically, it was true. "No, of course not, but I --"

"Do you take me for a fool?" He snarled. "When I turned the car around, I saw the line in the snow, the line you leave behind with your bicycle."

He stepped closer and hissed at him, backing Apollo into a corner. "No one on the police force uses a bicycle, Apollo, and no one in that district is stupid enough to try. Except," he sneered. "apparently you."

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why hadn't he thought of trails!?_

"Look, Mr. Gavin, this isn't what it looks like I wasn't trying to follow you or any-"

"I see. So you just happened to be in that part of town, at the precise time in which I happened to be there, didn't you? Come now, boy, I'm sure you can think up a better excuse than that." He taunted. Apollo shifted behind some more, and Kristoph slid forward like a snake. His smile had disappeared.

"Do you remember what I told you when you first move in?"

Apollo stammered a reply even he didn't understood.

"_DO YOU?" _Kristoph roared.

"N-No!" Apollo yelled back, feeling afraid. He had never seen Kristoph that angry before, whatever stupid things he had done.

In precise, clipped words, Kristoph continued with a scary calm. "I told you, Apollo Justice, that you are in no uncertain terms allowed near my business." He snapped. "I told you, that what I do, at my time, is what I do at my time, you--" He stabbed a finger into Apollo's chest, leaving a slit in his shirt with sheer force. "--keep your nose out of what I do. Do you remember?"

"Y-yes, but I--"

"And yet you did not obey. I operate on very simple terms, Justice. You obey my rules, and I'll keep you alive, but alas--" Kristoph did a dramatic shrug with an insane grin on his face. "--you failed even to keep such a simple rule true."

"Kristoph, for god's sake, if you'll just let me explain --"

He cut him off. "There will be no explanation necessary, Justice. You are hereby terminated. Get out of my life." Kristoph spat and turned, walking off, leaving Apollo to stare after him in shock.

* * *

Life on the streets were not a pleasant prospect, but with Kristoph so angry over the incident, it wasn't like he could walk back into the apartment and expect to live through it. In his present mood, Kristoph would probably be inclined to brain him over the head with a heavy bottle. So Apollo stood outside the building.

He considered vaguely the notion of groveling – but he declined. No matter how wrong he was in following him, it still remained that Kristoph was wrong too, and Apollo refused – absolutely refused to apologize like some kind of criminal. Like the only guilty party. Then he considered standing outside their apartment, at least it was a hell lot warmer inside than outside in the cold snow. But he couldn't do that either, his pride rebelled at the idea of standing there like a dog waiting to be let in. And so he stood outside, with his arms folded and tucked under his armpits to keep them from freezing over and falling off.

He stood there all night long and a few hours – or maybe it was really fifty, and he didn't realized – the snow let up. Dawn broke, and light streaked across the sky, leaving a pale mist of evaporated snow in midair. The temperature was 2 degrees Celsius. Apollo crawled onto a bench coated with snow frozen into ice and curled himself up on it, oblivious to the cold. His feet were on the verge of frostbitten, even a frozen bench was a friendlier ally than the snow.

By morning he was starving. He wanted to go back in and grovel at Kristoph's feet for some hot soup, but of course he didn't. He chose instead to line up in front of a nearby soup kitchen for a serving of broth. It tasted good – anything would taste good when you were disowned, on the streets, and starving.

He kept this up – this routine of soup kitchen and bench warming for one whole day. The next day, after sleeping around the benches and sore all over, he decided he was wrong. He would, at that point, gladly announced that he was a mass murderer to get access to the heater. So since it was Tuesday, he decided to head to the Gavin firm to seek out Kristoph and apologized. He marched up the stairs leading to it with a solemn face – like a person at a funeral – and was prepared to be confronted with the worse. Maybe Kristoph would hit him. Or yell at him. Maybe he'll push him out of a window. He was willing to waver that pride and apologize, whatever the case.

But no, the secretary told him, Kristoph wasn't in. She was waiting outside the office, waiting for him to come and unlock the door to the office, but he wasn't there, and it was already half an hour pass opening hours. Kristoph was never late, and he hadn't been there the previous day either. She was worried.

He was too, so he headed to the only other place he knew, home.

* * *

The apartment was deadly silent when he unlocked the door and crept into it, like a burglar entering his first house. The silence clogged the air, like a suffocating feeling in your throat, and wouldn't dislodged – it flooded through the whole place like a wave, the rooms, the kitchen, the hallway. The ambience was quietness.

His footsteps fell on the wooden floor as quietly as possible – but every creak on the floor sounded like a thunder striking a gong – it announced his presence – t he house was no longer empty. He crept in, creep because he felt as if the house was now a stranger and it didn't welcome in and walked into the living room.

The room was a mess. The cushions from the chairs were strewn all over the floor, with strips of cloth tore from them, still dangling from their fresh wound. A vase overturned over a cushion, and one chair had been thrown across the room, landing upside down on the dining table with broken china squirming underneath it. A picture hanging above the fireplace was now broken, and it's remains stabbed at passerbys in vengeance.

_What on Earth happened here?_

Did someone break into the house while he was gone? Robbed something? But then – he gasped. What about Kristoph? Had he been hurt in the assault? Was that why he had cried absent from the firm?

He looked around wildly to find evidence of Kristoph's state when he saw the man himself curled on the floor beside a chair, partially hidden from his view, carnage all around him. His head fell forward, and his arms hung loosely beside him, back leaned against the chair legs. He looked like a victim of a murder case.

"Kristoph?"

No answer. Apollo limped pass the severed objects, holding his breath in. If Kristoph was dead, he didn't want to wait until it appeared on the news to know. He wanted to know it now. He knelt down beside Kristoph.

It took him a little while before he ascertain that he was in fact, breathing, albeit in ragged gasps like – dare he think it? - a person who had cried himself to sleep.

"Kristoph." He said again, this time a little firmer. He put his hand on his arm and shook him a little. "Kristoph?"

Kristoph gasped, and his eyes fluttered open – looking wildly around before pinpointing his assailant. When he saw it was Apollo, he looked confused. Confused as to why he was on the ground – just like Apollo. Except what Apollo wanted to know was why there were tear stains streaking down his coffee-coloured face.

"A-Apollo?" He stammered.

Apollo didn't answer. He didn't know what he was supposed to say. Should he console him? But he didn't even know what he was supposed to console him about.

"What happened here?"

"Why...are you here?" Kristoph asked him. His face was pulled together in a frown, but he looked childish. Something was missing from him. Composure?

"I came back. To..." he gulped, the words catching in his throat. "...to apologize. I'm sorry. For following you I mean."

He just stared at him. "Why did you do that?" his voice trembled, accusing. "You weren't suppose to do that."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want – don't want people to know."

"To know what?" Apollo asked. "That you forge evidences?"

Kristoph winced like he had been slapped. "No. I don't want people to know...To know that I'm a failure, Apollo."

"You're not a failure."

"I am."

"You're not." He said, gently, but firmly. Somehow, in the last twenty-four hours, he had turned from advised to advisor.

"I am," he repeated. "I can't even win a trial without forging evidence. I can't win, not even when I know the person is innocent. Even when the person IS innocent."

Apollo waited quietly.

"The only thing I can do is tell them how sorry I am. The justice I loved? It's a joke, no one really cares about it."

He curled up some more and pushed against the chair. "And I hated that same justice I loved....So I become what I really am – a selfish bastard. I shove people out of the way, using whatever means and build up that reputation. Coolest defense attorney in the west? I'm not. I'm the coldest."

"Kristoph..."

"I am. Even my brother is better than me. At least he gets by without having to lie and cheat like I do."

"Kristoph." Apollo stated again, more firmly. "You're not a failure, or selfish, or anything of the kind."

He opened his mouth to argue, but Apollo cut him off.

"You want proof? I'll give you proof. I'M the proof."

A confused look.

"I'm proof that you're not a bastard of any order. You took me in, when no one else even gave a damn about me – and you help me; that I can achieve my dreams, that I can leave that place, that I am happy, Kristoph, it's all thanks to you."

"I..." Kristoph wet his lips. "I have a reason for that." He closed his eyes. " I...can't remember. But I have a reason for that. "

A lump swell in Apollo's throat, but he pushed it away."It doesn't matter. You could have just thrown me aside after adopting me, but you didn't. You've been more than kind to me, you've been like..." He gulped. "Like I don't know, a brother, a father. Everything. You're not a failure, Kristoph."

He stared at a spot behind Apollo's shoulder, and Apollo could tell that the Kristoph Gavin he knew – the man was just a facade – underneath all that seemingly endless composure was a broken person.

"I'm not...Anything like you've described. I'm not that noble. I..."

"You are. Denial ill becomes you, Kristoph."

A tiny smile at that.

"...But you betrayed me." The statement was quiet, and if Apollo hadn't been waiting for it, he wouldn't have heard it.

"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it. "I truly am. I was just...curious I guess. Curiosity killed the cat and all that. It won't happen again."

Kristoph tilted his head up and looked at him as though trying to gauge how truthful he was being. The sun was up, and from the balcony, you can hear cars honking and people yelling and talking and shouting. But in there, the room, there was only silence, the broken furniture, and Kristoph Gavin, looking up at him with a rare moment of vulnerability.

"Do you promise?" He asked, almost childishly.

_"I promise."_

Apollo smiled at him, and he, with the sun framing him like an angel, smiled back.

* * *

**Note:** I AM NOT OCC-ING KRISTOPH! I DENY DENY DENY THAT CHARGE! All will be revealed in the next chapter, my dears. And anyway, what's wrong with a little mental breakdown? He's human too you know, not say, a bundle of pixels. Also, I'm aware Apollo doesn't know about all these forgery stuff during the game, but there's going to be a reason for that.

_Tune in next time, folks, for a brand new episode of Viva La Justice!_

Also, contrary to what I say on chapter one, I'm starting to get yaoi vibes from this. Help.


	7. VII : Atroquinine, my love

snapefan21 : Oops sorry! I know it's grammatically incorrect (many bits of me are) but I think it looks better this way. (Does that mean I'm shallow, the fact that I take appearances over grammar? LOL.) Well, anyway, I'm sorry, but you'll just have to endure. Avert your eyes from the title? xD

Note : I'm sorry if you disapprove of the same thing told from a different perspective, but I have a reason, and I want to show something. Also, I'm serious : I think this is seriously turning into romance. Slap me do. x_x"

* * *

_Do you play me for a fool, fool?_

_***_

_VII __: Atroquinine, my love.  
_

_Kristoph Gavin had returned home an extremely unhappy person – he was angry – furious even, at what he saw as a betrayal of Apollo's. He had adopted him – willingly or not – housed him, cloth him, fed him and educated him and this was how he repaid him – by stalking him around in the middle of the night to catch him red-handed talking to a forger. For every single sin of Apollo's he stewed over – he knew at that moment who he hated more – himself. He had been careless. Apollo had followed him halfway across the city and witnessed their little tête-à-tête before he found out. It was unforgivable, his own stupidity._

_He felt like swearing, so he did, and he felt like hitting himself, but that would be ridiculous, so he did what was second best instead – he hit the things around him. The things unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of the abuse in question was his furniture and he didn't even wince as wood splinter when he threw it at the wall. God, that felt good. He should have done it a long time ago._

_Belatedly he realized once he was all calmed down and worn out from throwing things and smashing stuff up, that there was now a person out there who knew about the forgeries. Not just anyone either, it was Apollo, who was in some way he couldn't determine, connected to the Gramaryes. If he ratted out to anyone that Kristoph uses forgeries, and it got out that he was related to the Gramaryes, the public may once again remember the incident involving Phoenix. It could spark a whole chain of investigations he didn't want happening. Worse even than the prospect of him ratting on him, was the fact that he had thrown him out. A child, legally underaged, walking out in the streets risk being picked up by a police – and the last thing Kristoph wanted was for Apollo to have any contact with any man of law. _

_How stupid he was for alienating Apollo. No, now that he knew, he needed him around – if only to make sure he stayed silent. At least, until he found some way to silence him permanently. Screw the Gramarye case, the boy was far more important now. He paced around the slice of the room still unmarred by broken furniture and started doing what he did best, plotting._

_A stab of pain brought his attention down. His skin had been sliced apart by a vase he had broken and was now emitting a small trickle of blood, flowing down the surface. He cussed and pulled a drawer open roughly, grabbing the first row of bandage he could get his hands on. He wrapped the bandage around his hand tightly, then stared at the rough white fabric, as though fascinated by it's very being. A plan started spinning itself like yarn in the wheels of Kristoph's mind. His lips parted in a savage smile, and he tore the bandage off. _

_This was going to be fun._

_

* * *

_

_First he arranged the mess to suit his idea of a mess indeed, guided by the soft light streaming down from the window and passing by the flimsy white curtains fluttering weakly in the morning air. He pulled the curtains a little apart – below the window, he could see the figure of Apollo with his scarf wrapped around his head and shivering wildly in the cold. He had both his hands tucked in, and periodically squat down and stand up in an effort to get his body heated up nicely. _

_Kristoph smiled. Serves the boy right._

_He returned to more pressing matters. He knew how stubborn Apollo was, he probably wouldn't return for a whole day yet, so he could take time to prepare. He would have to skip work today. A person having a little breakdown surely wouldn't go to work. No, he'll simply finish up his cases in the house, and hand it to the secretary once everything was over. In the mean time though..._

_

* * *

_

_The soft knock on the door was hesitant – completely different from the usual confident bang on the door from Apollo. How modest, Kristoph sneered. But it was time to get serious. He wiped off the tears streaking down his face – tears he had managed to conjure up at the thought of the saddest thing he managed. He felt ridiculous, but at least he didn't have to resort to onions – which were surely the most indecent plant to be created in the universe. He had decided a little tear or two would make having a breakdown seem all that more believable, and of course, silly, foolish little Apollo would find himself more guilty, and they would reconcile over a hug or two. Everything would be over, that was, until the next piece of pawn he decides to play in their little game._

_He sat curled up on the ground, in the middle of the carnage. The door clicked, and was slowly pushed open. Apollo took a hesitant step into the place. One step. Two step. Then he was right beside him, and Kristoph didn't have to look up to know because he could hear Apollo sucking in his breath and holding it. _

"_Kristoph?" He called out. Kristoph didn't answer him, of course. Apollo inched closer, kneeling down beside him. He could hear his soft breathing beside him, coming out raggedly, like it was trembling. He opened his eyes, and he could see Apollo's face close to his, worry etched into every line._

"_A-Apollo?" Of course it was Apollo. Who else would it be? But Kristoph had thought he would look well...Something for what happened two nights before. Perhaps remorse, or even anger over the incident – but all he saw was worry, and fear – and he was confused. Emotion like those was foreign to him, and they weren't expected._

_Apollo looked at a spot on the ground between them, biting his lip slightly. _

"_What...happened here?" He offered by way of conversation._

"_Why...are you here?" Words are hard to form, for some reason. Something lodged itself in his throat, like a fish bone, biting into his vocal cords and decapitating them._

"_I came back to..." Apollo mumbled, then look away. "...to apologize. For following you, I mean."_

_At this point, a cool and calculated Kristoph had earlier planned for a tirade of babbling to act like he was having a breakdown. Sympathy was a bitter pill to swallow, but at this point, he would do many things to get Apollo back on his good side. But he couldn't stop himself from asking the one thing he had wanted to know since that night._

_  
"Why did you do that?" the words rushed out before he could stop them. "You weren't suppose to do that." He sounded like a child accusing someone, even to his own ears. _

_Apollo hung his head forward, ashamed. Or perhaps remorseful? He wished he was half as talented as Apollo in reading expressions. _

"_I'm sorry."_

"_I don't want people to know." He blurted out. He closed his eyes. What was he doing? This isn't going as planned at all._

"_To know what?" Apollo muttered. "That you forge evidences?"_

_Kristoph winced. That word always annoyed him, for some reason, and he always felt like shouting 'Objection' and poking someone with a nail where it hurt. Because the word reminds him of how base what he was doing was._

"_No. I don't want people to know...To know that I'm a failure, Apollo." he mumbled in answer. And even as he uttered it, he realized it was true. When was the last time he won a court case without relying on forged evidences, or manipulated testimony? There was a word for this in court, and it wasn't pretty._

"_You're not a failure."_

"_I am." he insisted in return._

"_You're not." Apollo stated, his grip on his arm was firm, but gentle. _

"_I am," he repeated. "I can't even win a trial without forging evidence. I can't win, not even when I know the person is innocent. Even when the person IS innocent." Ugly memories. Trials that he had failed, and defendants being hauled off while all he could do was stand aside and watch. _

_Apollo waited patiently._

"_The only thing I can do is tell them how sorry I am. The justice I loved? It's a joke, no one really cares about it." He curled himself up, wanting nothing more than to become smaller. That way, maybe it would hurt lesser, some juvenile part of him insisted. "And I hated that same justice I loved....So I become what I really am – a selfish bastard. I shove people out of the way, using whatever means and build up that reputation. Coolest defense attorney in the west? I'm not. I'm the coldest."_

"_Kristoph..." Apollo started another one of those weak explanations of his. You're not, they would say, and pat your back. Then they'll tell you how privileged you are, and how it's not really your fault. _

"_I am," he cut him off. "Even my brother is better than me. At least he gets by without having to lie and cheat like I do."_

"_Kristoph," Apollo stated again, in a voice that brook no argument. "You're not a failure, or selfish, or anything of the kind." _

_Kristoph opened his mouth to snap at him. What did he, a lowly boy of tender age know? He's barely stepped onto the turd they call life, and he had the affront to ADVISE him? It was laughable, the thought._

"_You want proof? I'll give you proof." Apollo said, effectively cutting him off. He paused for a moment of drama. "I'M the proof." _

_Kristoph just looked at him like he had a failed brain surgery._

"_I'm proof that you're not a bastard of any order. You took me in, when no one else even gave a damn about me – and you help me; that I can achieve my dreams, that I can leave that place, that I am happy, Kristoph, it's all thanks to you." _

"_I..." Kristoph wet his lips. He didn't want himself painted like a saint. At that moment, the comparison between himself and one was laughable. "I have a reason for that." He closed his eyes. " I...can't remember. But I have a reason for that. " _

_Almost. He almost had the guts to tell Apollo to his face that he never wanted to adopt him in the first place. But of course he didn't dare. He was a coward. He looked at Apollo, and he could see that the boy was hurt. Emotion rushed across his face; he never had been good at hiding his emotions. The hurt was as clear as it would be if it had been painted in red paint._

"_It doesn't matter. You could have just thrown me aside after adopting me, but you didn't. You've been more than kind to me, you've been like..." He gulped. "Like I don't know, a brother, a father. Everything. You're not a failure, Kristoph." he pressed on._

_Hah. The irony. The boy was effectually telling him that the one thing he had succeeded in was the one thing he had never wanted to do in the first place. Not to mention, that the man the boy thought existed was nothing more than a wallpaper for a cold cement room. He didn't exist. He wasn't that kind, that noble, that selfless, and he said it._

_"I'm not...Anything like you've described. I'm not that noble. I..." _

_"You are. Denial ill becomes you, Kristoph." Kristoph smiled a little at that. Apollo was catching on with his sarcastic habits a little to quickly. _

_And it was nice, and for a moment, he felt the desire to succumb into the little image that Apollo had painted for him – to believe that he was truly a good person underneath. Wasn't that what he always wanted? To be seen as kind and generous and nice and everything revoltingly saintly. It was evidence that he was perfect, that he could manipulate even the closest person to him into thinking that. Except..._

"_...But you betrayed me." He whispered, under his breath. The same person who was telling him he was nice now? He was another lie too. The only reason he was even in this place was because of yet another lie, that had been spun from yet another lie. Kristoph's whole life seem to be made out of lies._

"_I'm sorry," Apollo said, sounding sincere. "I truly am. I was just...curious I guess. Curiosity killed the cat and all that. It won't happen again." _

_Kristoph tilted his head and looked at Apollo, trying to read his expression. The window behind Apollo was open, and the sunlight streamed in, and he rather thought Apollo looked like the saint he wasn't. One that was rather silly and straight-laced, but one nonetheless. _

"_Do you promise?" He whispered the question. _

"_I promise." _

_Apollo smiled at him, and he closing his eyes in faint bliss, felt himself let go. _

_Once, just once, he'll allow himself to believe that it was okay to not be in control. That the world didn't revolve around him. That he had someone else that would stand up for him._

_He smiled back in return._

* * *

Kristoph fingered the cabinet's lock, flicking it apart with a couple of smooth moves. The smooth metal surface of the safe built inside the cabinet peeked at him, it's surface black and subtle. He punched the number into the panel fixed beside it, and twisted the knob into the correct position before it sprang open. Sitting inside was a bottle of beautiful colourless liquid, glinting in a bottle that once contained perfume, but now only contained his favourite poison – Atroquinine.

He reached into the safe and pulled it out, fingering the smooth lines made onto the bottle. The smooth lines band together to form the brand's name, which of course was something Kristoph was a fan of.

But it couldn't compare to the liquid inside it.

Kristoph had, for as long as he could remember, adore the poison. It was so...uncomplicated. Tasteless, odourless, colourless, it was every chemist, or in his case, murderer's dream. It was lethal too, and you could slip a couple of drops into your best friend's drink and your best friend won't be your best friend for long any more. He'll be lying six feet under withing fifteen minutes of ingesting the drink. Oh, and of course, it only starts acting up after a whole fifteen minutes, which gives you plenty of time to rid yourself of evidences. It wasn't just a poison, it was _the _poison.

He had first heard of it a long time ago, when he had first started out as an attorney. He had allowed it to sit in a corner of his brain and ferment – until he needed poison, that is. Since then, it had been his favourite tool of disposing of annoying police officers that started poking around his business, or forgers who got troublesome, or knew too much, or worse – and this was a favourite personal joke of his – threatened him with blackmail. And now, it seemed he would add another stereotype to his list of victims – adopted children who knew too much.

After Apollo had returned, and things settled down, he had crawled into bed and fell asleep almost immediately. In fact, Kristoph had been the one who pulled his blanket over him and turned on the heater. He started thinking of poisoning him during that tender gesture.

Apollo knew one thing – and one thing alone – that he forged evidences. This was a taboo, and in Kristoph's world, that meant he would be eliminated as soon as it was possible. He knew Apollo would never tell anyone about it – the boy was more loyal than Vongole itself – but there was always the 'What if' question. Things can happen, and things can conspire – Apollo could get drunk and spill his guts out about it, he could tell someone in spite, he may even get suspicious and started poking around his cases and telling people too much. The boy was not known for his discretion. No, the most simple way to tie up all the loose ends was to finish him off.

Kristoph's fingers tightened around the liquid. The liquid that would murder Apollo, he reminded himself, and felt himself shaking slightly at the thought. It was so simple, and that same simplicity was almost ironic. Apollo was a strong, healthy boy – but all it would take was just two drops of that simplicity and he would be nothing more than a pile of keratin in a box. His fingers curled around the tiny bottle like a serpent, and it groaned in protest. It was simple. He abandoned the bottle on the kitchen counter and put both palms down on it, staring straight ahead at the tap of the kitchen sink dripping quietly.

_Drip._

The poison.

_Drip._

The opportunity.

_Drip._

The alibi.

He had everything he needed to make his life go back to the way it was.

_But was that a good thing?_

That question kept him up all night, and he found he had no answer.

* * *

Apollo grinned at him from opposite the table, spinning his fork to wrap the noodles around it firmly before opening his mouth wide and sticking it in. He chewed loudly.

"Is it good?" Kristoph cocked an eyebrow at his bowl of instant ramen in a colourful red bowl.

"You have _NO_ idea." Apollo, stated, still chewing loudly. Kristoph didn't point the sounds out to him. He closed his eyes in mock bliss. "This is like ambrosia, or nectar or whatever, sent down to humans in a heavenly body, fit for immediate consumption."

"A prose worth debating." Kristoph muttered, putting his chopsticks forward and pilfering some of his noodles away. Apollo stuck his fork into Kristoph's caviar and return the gesture.

"Revolting." He announced, pulling a face at Kristoph's plate. "I have no idea how you eat that, it tastes like the stomach of a fish. A fish that hasn't been cleaned properly, I might add."

"It's a beluga sturgeon, actually. And might I add it costs more than your education allowance, I might add."

The boy gawked at his plate. "Serious?"

"No, I'm joking. It's only about a hundred and fifty per ounce." Apollo's eyes widened.

"You, Kristoph Gavin, is a spendthrift, through and through."

Kristoph smiled at him, "It's only because I can."

That brought back memories of that incident, and his forgeries, and they both turned pensive.

"Oh yes, I have something for you." Kristoph mumbled to break the silence. He opened the fridge and handed Apollo a box of guava juice. In the fridge, a dozen more grinned at him.

"Wow, guava juice! How did you know I like that?"

"Perhaps from the fact that you unfailingly buy it from the school store?" Kristoph chuckled. His fingers had trembled a little when he handed it to Apollo.

"Yeah, well there aren't many places that sell this brand. I've only seen one other place that sells it." Apollo grinned, throwing the box from hand to hand. "Where did you get it?"

"From the shop right down this street."

"Serious?" Apollo gawked. "Man, and all this time I endured all those snaps from the store clerk, and there's a shop selling it right down this street!"

"Grumpy clerk?"

"Extremely." They laughed. Apollo glanced at the clock. "Alright, it's about time I head for school. What are we having for dinner tonight?"

Kristoph raised an arrogant eyebrow. "Why, do you doubt my fine taste?"

"Fine taste, my foot. And who's turn is it to choose where we eat dinner?" he asked.

"Will I get through by lying and saying it is my turn?"

"No way, cheater," Apollo mock-shouted, and they laughed. "Alright, I should be going. Chinese takeout, tonight, okay? And no more of that dim sum stuff you ordered last time. I nearly died of allergies right there."

"Of course," Kristoph inclined his head. Apollo grinned back, and headed for the door with his bag flapping awkwardly beside him. He turned around at the door and yelled back at Kristoph, waving the box.

"Oh, and thanks again for the juice! Don't know how I'll live pass lunch without this." He laughed again and left, the door swinging shut with a bang behind him. Then all was silent in the apartment.

'Don't know how I'll live pass lunch without this.', he had said. Kristoph stared at the door, where Apollo had been just a minute earlier, waving the box at him cheerfully. He had an idea of how he was going to live pass lunch, and it was by not ingesting that juice, which he had prepared earlier with a tiny syringe filled with Atroquinine.

And there wouldn't be Chinese takeout tonight either, because tonight Kristoph would be enjoying his bachelorhood again with a celebration by way of the German cuisine Apollo loathed, and Apollo...Well, Apollo wouldn't be amongst the citizenship tonight, that was all.

* * *

The sound of Apollo's laughter rang again and again in his mind. It rang while he stonily wash the dishes, and it rang as he remove all evidence of the Atroquinine from his apartment, having cried another day off today at work. It rang all the way while he read a book, and in the end he had to turn on the stereo and set it to one of those modern hip-hop channels to drown out the sound of Apollo in his head, laughing.

It wasn't a spiteful laugh, like the kind he would receive from his colleagues. It wasn't scornful, or envious, or reeking with sugary compliments in hope of getting a place in the Gavin firm. No, it was just a laugh, a simple unburdened laugh. How many times had he cursed the owners of those spiteful laughs, wishing that they would disappear off the surface of Earth? Yet the one whose death he was trying to engineer now was the one person around him whose smile was genuine. If it didn't sting that much, he would have thought it ironic.

He turned the stereo louder, and tried not to think of Apollo.

...And failed. The house itself would remind him now – Apollo had made his mark here in the months he had resided here. There was an arrangement of flowers on an elegant glass table with gold hilted legs before, but was now cluttered with the replacement by assorted books and tomes Apollo had chosen to read. When he got bored of them, or wasn't done yet, he would throw them onto the table, and one pile after another, until now there was a handsome stack of books on the glass surface. Then there was the painting on the wall that Kristoph had done. When Apollo had found out who the artist was, he had insisted that he could paint too – that he had in fact, finished top in his old school's art class – so Kristoph relented, and now there was an ugly painting that looked like chicken scratching on dirt, but which Apollo insisted was just misunderstood modern art.

He smiled a little at that.

Then there was the coffee table, on which Apollo, drunk from his first taste of wine, had started dancing upon. He had been rather indignant too, when Kristoph reminded him of it the following day.

He walked into Apollo's room, his feet carrying where he didn't want to go. This time tomorrow, he could empty this room, and no one would know or care. Justice's belongings would go into the nearest thrash he could find, and would be compressed, crushed and made to disappear forever. He ran a finger across the spine of the books lining the bookshelves – thick books that had been Kristoph's choice rather than his and a few silly novels slotted in here and there – before stopping at a red spine. Apollo's journal.

He hesitated for a moment. He knew what it was like having your privacy breached – but did it really matter? Apollo was, in all accounts, as good as gone. He slided the heavy book out, running his fingers over the golden words sewn onto the cover. _Gerechtigkeit_ .

He opened the book and started reading.

* * *

The shower was turn on at full power, and the nozzle sprayed out water with such ferocity that the pipe suspending it shook violently. If it had dislodged right then, it would probably shoot straight at Kristoph's head, killing him – but such thoughts weren't what he wanted right now. He stood under the shower, still dressed in his suit, and tried to wash off what he had just read like it was a layer of mud. Or dirt.

The water soaked his clothes thoroughly, and they, in turn, soaked him to the bone. But that was alright. More's the better.

***

_Dear diary,_

_Today, I found out something about Mr. Gavin. It's not something I'm at a liberty of telling you, so I won't write it down here. It's not something nice – it's ugly, in fact – and I'm determined, once everything has settle down – to persuade Kristoph to discontinue it. He's reliant on it, or so he insists – but I know better. I know that he doesn't need all that – he's far better than he gives himself credit for – and if he just put it aside for a moment, he'd see it himself too. It's not the answer to his question – he already had what he needs. He already IS what he needs. All he has to do is believe in himself, like I do. I'm going to make him see things my way, someday._

_Why, you ask? It's simple – because I trust him._

_Apollo Justice._

_***_

Such a simple entry. Yet so telling. It told everyone who sees it one thing – and that was that Apollo Justice was a sentimental person to the point of foolishness. It told the reader that he was blind, and that he was an idiot, and that he trusted Kristoph Gavin. Just like that, without a punchline.

Kristoph pushed his face against his hands, letting the water fall onto him in a gush. Why was everything in his life so bloody complicated? He wanted to win, so he forged evidences. Then he had to silent the forger, and he poisoned him. Years later, he meets someone related to the case, and just his luck, he had amnesia and he had to adopt him to keep an eye on him – in case he one day remembers again. Then now the boy found out too much, and he wanted to poison him, only realizing after the deed was done that he couldn't do it after all. In the months that they had spent together, they had developed an odd, hodge-podge sort of bond, and poisoning him now – it made him feel like he had just done something similar to stabbing Klavier to death.

And the worse part of it was he couldn't take it back even if he wanted to. The poison would probably have been ingested by now. In fact, he should be getting a call from the authorities right about now.

_Don't know how I'll live pass lunch without this._

The words ranged in his mind again – but this time, it meant something much different to him. He raised his head, staring directly at the wall in front of him.

_Don't know how I'll live pass lunch without this._

Did that meant he would take that juice with his lunch? If that was the case...He did a quick mental calculation. He had seen the ten o'clock news earlier, and it's been around two hours since. Apollo's lunch break was at one which meant if he acted quick...

He was out of the door before he even finished that line of thought.

* * *

As soon as he was out of the apartment, he realized that if he arrived at Apollo's school drenched thoroughly like a soaked rat, he wasn't going to be able to get anywhere near the school compound, so he had to do a double take and changed and he cursed himself for doing something as stupid as standing under the shower with his clothes on – even though that was probably what made his decision – but now that it was made, he was in a hurry. He didn't bother to stand around having an internal monologue as to the benefits of rescuing – or if you want to be honest, undoing, since he was the culprit in the first place – Apollo. He cursed, nearly ripping his shirt apart in his hurry and forgoing the coat, hit the road immediately in his car.

If the roads weren't jammed, it should only take about ten minutes between their apartment and the school. But now that he had made the decision, it seemed as though suddenly all the cosmical forces he didn't believe in was determined to put a stop to him. The roads were clogged like bad plumbing.

He tapped his hands nervously on the steering the whole journey. 12 : 30. He still had half an hour, that was assuming Apollo hadn't been greedy and drank it first thing in the morning. If that was the case, he would arrive to see him dead, and in the state of mind he was now, he thought he would throw up his guts. Or cry. He looked at the crowd of cars in front of him, which showed no signs of wavering. He snarled and cursed the other drivers. He hung on to the idea that if Apollo was dead, the school authority would call for sure, and drove on.

He twisted the car down the street and around corners, trying to take as many shortcuts as he could – but he was foiled at every turn – all the streets were congested and by the time he arrived at the school, it was already 12 : 45. Before he got out, he jabbed the reset button for his car's clock, just to make himself feel better.

He got out of the car in a hurry, and ran all the way into the school, stopping only to scribble his name on the visitor's list.

Was it lunch break already? He asked. No, was the answer, and he held on to that.

The school yard, in which most of the students, including Apollo, took their lunch, was the only place in the school that qualified as space. The rest of the school was built was so claustrophobic that it looked like a sandwich someone had smashed together with their fists and all it's contents spilled out from it's edges. For a school that cost so much, it had remarkably little room – all it's rooms served two or three purposes at once and had been a source of great concern amongst the students' parents. This once though, Kristoph was glad for it's size as he cut through the place – crossing an empty classroom or two in his hurry – and headed for the yard, where he found Apollo talking to another boy his age, reclining leisurely on the pedestal for a stone lion statue.

"Apollo!" He called, running towards him. Apollo stopped talking mid-sentence and looked up at him with a puzzled expression.

"What is it?" He asked. "Did something happen?"

"N-No-- D-Did you--" He was out of breath from all that running. It wasn't as though he was a fabulous athlete in the first place. He didn't see the box of juice anywhere, and he leaned forward with his hand on his knee to support himself and regain his composure.

"Did I...? Kristoph, this isn't some kind of joke right? Because you know how I feel about jokes." Apollo said to him, lending him a hand.

"N-No, this isn't a joke, Apollo." Kristoph straightened himself. " Did you ingest the juice I gave you this morning?"

"Huh? What's that got to do with anything?" He asked. Confused and frowning.

"DID YOU DRINK IT OR NOT?" Kristoph roared, planting both hands firmly on Apollo's shoulders and shaking him.

"Why? I mean, it's just juice, what's it --"

He cut him off with a statement of deadly calm. "Did you, or did you not, drink it?"

For a second Apollo just stared at him, open-mouthed. Then he nodded. "Yeah, I just did."

Without waiting for another answer or another question, Kristoph burst into action. He grabbed Apollo by his forearm and started hauling him across the yard.

"S-Stop it! What the hell are you doing!?" Apollo yelled from behind him. Kristoph didn't look behind, determined not to let this be the last time he saw him. If he got him to the hospital in time, he would be fine. No one he knew survived Atroquinine, but Apollo would be. He didn't want to think of the alternative.

"Did you hear me? I say, cut. It. Out!" Apollo punctuated the last word with a tug of his arm, trying to free himself from Kristoph's grip.

"Just shut up and move, Justice." He growled, his pace never relenting.

Apollo tugged at his arm again, this time succeeding from disengaging himself from Kristoph. Kristoph turned around – Apollo firmly planted himself on the ground – like he did all those months ago during their first shopping trip together – and folded his arms.

"I'm not moving an inch until you tell me what's wrong."

"There isn't time, Apollo. We're going to the hospital, and we're going NOW."

"I'm not m-moving u-until you tell me what's wrong." Apollo repeated. Kristoph couldn't help notice his stutters.

"Are you alright?"

"I-I'm fine..I just- my throat hurts. Do you have water with you?" Kristoph just stared at him in answer. The poison was starting to spread.

"In the car. Let's go." He grabbed Apollo and pulled him – but this time Apollo, perhaps realizing that something was in fact, wrong, moved with him, and they got into the car.

"The bottle's in the drawer under the windshield." He stated, starting the car up and immediately back it the fastest he could without ramming into something. He ignored the guard waving wildly outside, trying to get him to get out of the car and explain why he had just for all purposes, kidnapped a child from the school. He couldn't help but notice Apollo's hands trembling as he reached for the bottle, downing it all in one gulp.

"W-What's wrong with me?" Apollo gasped, squirming in his seat. His fingers wrapped around the bottle, squeezing it in an effort to transfer the pain.

"Nothing. You'll be fine once we get there." Kristoph snapped, wishing for all the world he could convince himself too. Apollo nodded in response, and curled up in his seat. He looked so much smaller, suddenly.

"I-I'll be fine, right?" He repeated, wanting an assurance.

"Yes."

They drive in silence. Then Apollo broke it.

"K-Kristoph- I don't feel too good." He moaned.

"You'll be fine." Kristoph repeated. His own hands were shaking and had trouble keeping the wheel straight. Beside him, Apollo started fidgeting and clawing the bottle. Despite his fondness for it, Kristoph had never really seen a victim of the poison when it was taking it's toll, and the thought of seeing it happen to Apollo scare him.

"Just hang in the--" He stopped mid-sentence.

Apollo had gone from clawing at the bottle to rigid, his back arched like a bow before it was let loose. He opened his mouth, trying to get words out but he couldn't.

"K-Kristoph--" he managed to gasp.

Then he fell forward; the last thing he uttered had been his name.

* * *

No, he's not going to die. Yes, I've not gone completely AU on this one. Yes, I'm aware that Vera Misham is the 'first known survivor.' I will be a reason – or rather, an excuse – like I always do. Sorry if there are many mistakes - I don't have time to proof read, since I'm snowed under with last minute projects, and if I wait until I'm done, I'll be aging with a beard before I can submit this.


	8. VIII : Twenty Questions

Note : I'm aware that up till now the stories have sort of been from alternate perspectives every other chapter. However, for obvious reasons, Polly won't be narrating this chapter and if you have read the previous one and can't figure out why, then bless you. :)

Alice : I'm sorry my chapters are so long. It's just that when I read stuff I tend to like to read loooooong stuff, so I write that way too. Will try to snip off irrelevant stuff.

And nowwwwww...Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my absolutely made up, barely believable excuses to fill in the blanks I've made and forge on as if I'm not a sucky plotter. I'm having too much fun writing to stop. Whether you enjoy it or feel like you want to stab me in the gut –can be explained with three words :_ Satisfaction not guaranteed._ =X

* * *

_How did I die, sir? _

_Well, to tell you the truth, I ain't rightly know meself;_

_***_

_VIII : Twenty Questions._

A long time ago Kristoph had seen a show. He had been sixteen, or seventeen, or something of that sort, and had found himself with an unexpected window of spare time; so he had turned on the television – something he did not do very often, and watched whatever it was that was showing at the time. It was some kind of detective movie, he couldn't remember, but someone was being interrogated and the premise was a small room with only one door and one tiny window near the ceiling with bars streaking down it. It was the first time Kristoph had seen such a thing – leading his sheltered, studious life, and the image of it stuck into a corner of his mind like gum to shoes.

The real thing was a little different though.

Upon entering Apollo into the hospital – still breathing but was obviously not going to be doing so for much longer without help – he had grappled with the administrators of the hospital and for the first time in his life – he came to curse paperwork and correct procedures. They entered Apollo into the emergency ward, but first they wanted to know who he was, and when he explained that he was his adopted father, they wanted paperwork to prove it and sat on their hands while they await the paperwork to be produced. Then he had to sign here, and sign there, and sign everywhere before they finally did something more than sticking life support on him to keep him from death.

When Apollo was finally admitted into the operating ward, Kristoph was a wreck. As if it wasn't enough that he had to live with the knowledge that he was the reason Apollo was in the hospital and not happy and safe at school, he had to endure prodding questions from the hospital. How did it happened? Did he see anyone suspicious near anything Apollo ingested? -_ Do I count?_ He wanted to snap at them. _Because that's the only person I can think of_ - . And then came the magic question – How DID he found out that he was – and this was informed sadly with a shake of their contemptible head as if they were speaking to a child – poisoned by a terribly lethal substance? Kristoph had no answer, staring only at a spot behind their shoulder. They gave up, leaving him alone to stare stonily at the half-glass separating the ward from the hallway.

There were blinds pulled to covered the glass, but between the tiny lines he could see green-clad doctors running around in a hurry. For once he made no comment about how ugly the colour was. Today was a day for firsts indeed. He squirmed in the uncomfortable row of plastic chairs in the hallway and tried to look appropriately distraught. This, unlike the questions, was a problem answered without effort. He was appropriately distraught.

He was staring at the white washed walls when heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway and someone emerged from the end of the dimly lighted place. It was a man, donning a rolled up shirt with his tie askew. He was either an accountant wandering around the twentieth floor of a hospital, lost, or a plainclothes detective here to round someone up. Kristoph would hedge his firm on the latter.

"Mr. Gavin?" A voice called out. The man emerged from the shadows, displaying the face for it's voice – a face that were it entirely up to Kristoph, he would have it deemed illegal in the States – a face that was askew like his tie. Yellow teeth, remnants from a decade – or judging from his age, two – of smoking.

"That would be me." He inclined his head, arms folded.

"Detective Dirk. E. Brown. " He thrust his hand forward. Kristoph didn't offer his, and the offer was rescinded. "I've been sent down from the precinct to talk to you a bit."

At least the man was straightforward and to the point. Kristoph hated beating around the bush when he wasn't the one doing it. "Regarding?"

Brown jerked a thumb in Apollo's direction. " 'bout that kid. Heard from the folks here he's been poisoned."

"Has he?"

"Yeah, seems so. So we'll like to talk to you, ask you a few questions, you know, the works. Down at the precinct."

"And if I refused?" Kristoph sneered. "You have no reasonable grounds under which you can arrest me, or 'talk' as you so nicely put it."

"Really? Kid down at the school seems to disagree." Brown sneered back, and it was an unpleasant expression.

"And that would be because...?"

"Because you came into the school, all hurried like according to the guard, and then this kid sees you drag his friend, shouting some shit about hospitals. Now, what we want to know is, how the hell did you know the kid was poisoned before it's effect kicked in?"

And under those grounds, they could probably produce a warrant within the next twenty-four hours, signed and stamped and ready to haul a bit of Kristoph Gavin into the department. No sense in delaying the interrogation then – it wouldn't serve his cause to have a warrant issued – they'll probably get a search warrant to accompany it too, and even if the evidence that could implicate him severely enough to prove a case was all lying somewhere in the city sewers, he had no intention of having his things mucked around with and dug through.

He glanced at the detective scornfully. "That's the same thing you guys are going to repeat for the next hour, aren't you?"

"We have our right to ask." He hadn't nod, but it was an affirmative.

"You may ask, but I don't have to answer."

With that he walked out of the hospital with the detective – the great Kristoph Gavin, reduced to barely an inch above a direct arrest.

_How far he had fallen in a few hours indeed,_ he mused.

* * *

Back to present and to the room – the room they placed him in was a severed room – or at least that was what it felt like to Kristoph. It was a small room - that much the show was correct about - with one oval-edged table and a grand total of nine folding chairs tucked into it. The room had a half-glass similar to that in the hospital, except the blinds were folded up and it looked into the police department's hallway which, unlike the hospital's was bustling and heavy with activity.

Night time is always their busiest time, someone commented to him. Kristoph had answered with a non-committal shrug and a realization that it was already nine at night.

They led him into the room and placed him in a chair – any chair at all, they don't mind. Not a bit – and Kristoph had chosen one that allowed him to look out into the hallway. The two detectives assigned to squeeze information out of him immediately took the seat opposite his and adopted a fighting stance. On their faces, that is.

What followed immediately bored him. First they would launch a series of questions not unheard before – How did he know? Did someone told him? Where did he get his information? Was he the one who poisoned the kid? He answered with a threat of pending lawsuit, telling them they had no right to question him without a lawyer present. They answered with a sneer that he was a lawyer himself. He shot back that he still had a right to an attorney and then they go like two fighters in a ring, on and on and on. One side would ask a question, and one side would deflect it. Rinse and repeat.

An hour later they started into the whole good cop-bad cop routine.

"Look, if you say you didn't do it, then why the hell are you so damned defensive?" One yelled, slamming his palm onto the table.

Kristoph examined his nails to hide a smile.

"Because I can." He said simply.

This irked them greatly. One, the supposed 'good cop' came to the rescue with a put-on smile. "Really now," he admonished his fellow officer before addressing Kristoph. "We understand that you have a right to remain silent – but I'm sure you want us to nab the guy who did this to your son, don't you?"

_Uh...That would be a no. With a capital N.  
_

The other guy glanced at the file with Apollo's information on it, and snickered when his eyes scrolled down to Apollo's name. Kristoph felt a sudden need for more Atroquinine.

"I do. Which is why I would rather you spend time on the streets, digging up information on the culprit, and not sit here wasting your time, talking to a person who won't answer. " He replied.

And then they started another rant, then another question, and it went on for another hour. Another detective joined the table, making it three. One more hour. It was twelve now, and the police department visibly became busier. People were led in by the dozen with handcuffs or paperwork on. Some visitors sat in the waiting area holding onto papers with a nervous expression, probably there to bail someone out.

Still Kristoph did not talk.

So they carried on the facade. They wanted the culprit, he knew. An innocent kid – one with a bright future from a prep school at that – suddenly dropping dead in the middle of school? Every rich bastard who has a kid in the school and it's clones in the area would want to know how and why and when it happened, and more importantly – when it surfaced that it was an attempt on his life – WHO? Who, they would want to know, was the one who had poisoned this child, who could have easily been their million-dollar child. They would go to newspapers and be interviewed by journalists, railing against society, and some senator. Which senator is not the question – someone will take the blame on the apparent abortion of justice and the rapidly failing society, and someone will resign his position, to be immediately lapped up by the hungry wolves on the fringe. Then the attention would turn to the police department and you'll hear cries far and wide asking and demanding answers from the police.

They would have to produce a culprit, someone for the public to spit on as a horrible child killer, and they would have to produce it fast – so they're hoping that Kristoph would volunteer.

Kristoph zoned out after a couple of hours more in conversation with them. He had been saying the same thing for the past hour, and he could repeat it without slip of tongue. Even outside, the crowd was thinning a little. Either the criminals took a rest at late night, or the police took a rest at late night - Kristoph bet it was the latter.

He tried his best not to think of Apollo. _Was he dead? _That was the question running through his mind. If his mind had been a piece of blank paper and the question in words, it would no doubt be in bold and underlined, demanding to be answered.

"How is Apollo?" He abruptly asked, looking up from where he had been ignoring the officer and staring at the table with no expression.

The room froze, an officer who had removed his tie a couple of hours earlier and now had his sleeves rolled up in frustration stopped in mid-sentence.

"Huh?" Someone grunted stupidly.

"How is Apollo?" He repeated, when no one seemed inclined to answer him. "As in, his condition. Is he alright?"

He had gotten him to the hospital in time, so maybe there was hope – or at least he wanted to believe that. The detectives exchanged looks. Then one – Brown – stated. "We don't know. The hospital called a couple of hours earlier that he survived the worst of it, but he's in a coma or something."

Kristoph nodded, and the detectives took this concern with zeal, resuming their pounding questions. Kristoph went back to ignoring them, gathering himself.

Apollo was alright. Well if he wasn't exactly alright, at least he wasn't dead yet. Which meant that he had no reason to continue torturing himself. He had done his best to save Apollo, and now he had to take care of himself. He had been alright with the notion of being hauled off in handcuffs – partly because he wanted to punish himself and partly because he was amused at the idea of what reaction those parents would have. - _Who's the murderer, you asked? Why, it's your attorney, sir!_ - Rushes would be made to firms to check if Kristoph the Gruesome had somehow displaced them of their funds. Wills will be double-checked in case Kristoph manhandled them and arranged to have everything sent to himself. Trials will be dug up under the alleged label of 'not being conduct by a rightful lawyer' before being buried again on the grounds that he had was perfectly fine during the trial. Lawsuits will be filed. Lawyers would bill. And then the lawyer jokes would start.

Well, time to nip it in the bud.

"Can I make a call?" He asked. The officers exchanged glances with each other again.

"Who do you want to call?" One said cautiously.

"Someone in charge." More glances. They were all aware that Kristoph had a reputation, and no one wanted him crying to their superior officer.

"We're in charge of this case."

"I'm not talking about this case. I'm talking about this department as a whole." Instinctively they slid their glances at a door outside, which had the words 'Serious Crime' embedded in gold onto a handsome black plate. Inside was a harried-looking man, whom Kristoph presumed to be their head.

"Who do you want to call, precisely?"

"The chief police," Kristoph said, and leaned back to watch the emotions played across their face. Incredulous, fear, and worry, then bravado paraded over their stricken faces.

"You know the chief." It wasn't a question – it was a statement, one that hopefully, he would refute.

No such luck. "I believe so. Now, may I or may I not make the call?"

They huddled in a corner to discuss the merit of refusing him that right, and came to the conclusion that it wouldn't work with him.

"Alright, alright, but only one."

With a hurried motion of chairs scraping the ground and people rising up, they shepherd Kristoph into an adjacent room – an office, with a desk phone. He picked up the receiver, then looked behind where they were all huddled outside the room with nervous expressions, and with a touch of his trademark subtle condescension, commented, "And don't eavesdrop now or I'll have your jobs, hmm?'

He chuckled at their expressions and punched in the chief police's number.

* * *

The chief police was not the intimidating, street-walking, fear-striking kind of police – neither now nor in his youth. He was the paper-shuffler, the person sitting behind the desk because he was one sheet of paper above your average police. He was a university graduate, and proud of it. So proud in fact, that he would tell any man unfortunate enough to happen to sit in the chair in front of his desk. He was a head of department when he joined the force – and in the years to come, he would climb and claw and spit his way up to the pinnacle of law enforcement – he would be the police chief. On his way, he would accumulate golf buddies, wives, more wives, and sadly, Kristoph as an attorney.

When he first approached Kristoph, it was something simple. He had slept with a streetwalker, and she got pregnant, and now she wanted to press charges against him for rape, with the child's DNA as proof. He wanted it settled, and he wanted it settled quietly, so he went to Kristoph. Kristoph had never seen fit to destroy the paperwork of the case, just in case he ever needed it to ah...request of him. Like now, for example.

The line beeped, and someone picked up the phone – a woman.

_"Who the hell is this?"_

"Kristoph. Kristoph Gavin."

_"What business do you have with him?"_ She snapped, loudly. _Ah, he mused. This must be the proverbial wife, the one he wants to divorce but cannot because she'll get everything. _

"I wish to speak to him about...stuff." He finished vaguely.

_"Then maybe you can have the decency to call at a decent hour."_

Bored, he ordered her blandly, "Pass the phone to him, and tell him my name, and that I am an attorney he consulted if he cannot remember."

He doubted the man would have trouble remembering him though. He knew enough dirt on him that half his sleepless nights would be because of him. The woman grumbled, before passing the phone to someone. Shouting ensued in the background before it was picked up again.

_"Hello, hello! How've you been Kristoph?" _The voice greeted him jovially – like he was an old friend whose call he had waited for the whole day.

"I am fine, thank you." He answered with matching political correctness. They started yet another facade – this time of small talk for ten minutes, before the man on the line mustered the courage to ask him what he must have been dying to ask.

_"So, what can I do for you today, friend?"_ Not Gavin. Not Kristoph. _Friend_. He must truly be terrified. Kristoph smiled.

"I seem to be in a bit of trouble."

_"Trouble?"_

"Yes, I've been arrested. Well, not really, since your minions insist that it's merely a 'talk' but in all essence, yes, I have been."

_"I-I see." the man squeaked. "Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable?"_

"You could call them off, for starters. I am capable of bailing myself out, but I want more than that. I want them to stop harassing me the moment I'm out of this place, like I'm sure they would."

_"What do you mean?"_

"Must I spell everything out for you? No search warrants. No arrest warrants. Period."

_"Uh," _a hesitant pause. _"What was the crime you're questioned for again?"_

"Murder." Kristoph stated simply.

_"Oh."_

_"Who's the victim?"_

"My son."

Another pause. _"A-And you want me to stop them from investigating you?"_

"That would be the idea, yes."

This time, there was a visible lapse in speech. Kristoph could practically see the man's mind reeling, weighing the consequences of refusing and accepting. If he refused, he risk incurring Kristoph's wrath and he could do a lot of damage to his career with the information he had. One the other hand, if he did cover it up and it was found out, he would be under fire from all directions. He could even be relieved of duty.

He seemed to have decided that the latter was more terrible, because a moment later he summoned the courage to challenge Kristoph._ "And why should I do that? For all I know, you're the real murderer and I would be helping you get away if I helped you out."_

_So he was going to play that game?_ "Need I remind you that you contacted me a number of years ago to help you erase a certain...problem?"

_"What are you talking about?"_

"Don't play dumb with me," Kristoph snarled into the phone.

_"A-Alright. So I did. What about it? It's already been so many years ago."_

"My memory survives for more than half a decade, unfortunately." He added before the man could make more excuses. "And rest assure that I keep many records, some of which, if examined, will be extremely revealing for you."

_"Are you BLACKMAILING me?" _The man was incredulous.

Kristoph examined his nails. "It's an inelegant term, but yes, it is appropriate."

_"Y-You--"_ the voice stuttered, then someone said something in the background, probably the woman from earlier and he shouted for that person to leave.

He returned to the receiver and hissed through gritted teeth. _"You can't do that."_

"And why not?"

_"If you get convicted, then you'll be a criminal, and no one in their right mind would believe your allegations over a chief of police. I don't care who you are or how famous you are as an attorney – once you're convicted, you're shamed. A liar and a crook. No one will even __LISTEN to you."_

"How sad, is that so?" Kristoph offered with feigned sadness. "How unfortunate then, if I were to be convicted."

_"Yes, which is why I said --"_

"Ah-ah, don't interrupt me, that is to your disadvantage." Kristoph held up a hand – a habit, even though there was no way the man could see him.

_"MY disadvantage? Need I remind you you're the one under questioning right now, and would be arrested as soon as they can pin it on you?" He retorted hotly._

"Yes yes, but that's the thing with what you just said : 'If you get convicted, then you're a criminal' and no one would believe me, no? But here's the rub, what if I'm not convicted?"

Complete silence from the line.

"If I'm not – and this is a high chance since we're both aware of my ah...reputation – then you'll be - I'm sorry for the vulgar term, but it's a fit one – dead meat."

_"You mean you'll really do it?"_

" I assure you that I'll run to the reporters at every turn."

The chief police was silent, then he gave a heavy defeated sigh._ "Alright, you win, Kristoph Gavin. I see why they call you the 'coolest defense attorney in the west'. It's a bit of an understatement actually – You're also the coldest."_

Kristoph flinched at the reminder of his words to Apollo, and pressed on. "Then you will see to it then I am no longer a suspect in this case?"

_"I can't promise that much, but I'll try my best. I should at least be able to press them in another direction."_

It would only make them more determined to make Kristoph out as the culprit, but at least they would have to do it discreetly.

"One last thing, however. I want no part of this in the public."

_"You mean the press?"_

"No, I mean the public as a whole. I don't want people to know about the incident – no part of it – especially not the victim's profile."

_"W-well, that's slightly harder to do. I can't exactly stop the detectives from blabbing, and the reporters are always hot on the scene one time or another." _He wheezed, all the past two decades worth of good life coming back in vengeance in the form of one Kristoph Gavin.

"I don't care about what the detectives say, as long – and this is an important one – no part of it is to the public. As far as they are concerned, no boy have been poisoned and no survivor of Atroquinine exist. Do you understand me?"

_"The victim is this case is poisoned by Atroquinine?" The chief voiced, alarmed. "And he survived it?"_

"Do you_understand_ me?" Kristoph repeated with a savage snarl.

_"Alright, alright, I'll do my best. Get them off you, get it out of the press. It's as good as done."_

"Excellent."

More silence.

_"U-Uh, I'll hang up now. I need to start making calls."_ He stammered as if speaking to a strict schoolteacher. The man hadn't been intimidated for the past decade.

"Please do," Kristoph stated simply and hung up the phone himself. Then he turned around at the mass of detectives huddled together outside the room and opened the door to speak to them.

"Why don't you gentlemen come in? I believe the chief police will be giving you a call soon." The men shuffled in like naughty school children, and sure enough, the phone rang. They jumped out of their skin, and one hurried forward to answer the phone.

"Uh-huh...But sir, if you'll excuse my rudeness, he's one of our most promising suspects – we can't just -"

"Yes, of course, but there's no rule against questioning – huh? Alright."

He passed the phone to another detective, one more silent and composed. He listen, then nodded. "Yes, I understand, sir." He looked up at the rest. "Chief says to free the guy."

The rest of them cursed – one stomped off in disgust - but they all unanimously agreed that as the chief have spoken, and the chief have ordered, they have to release him. No one mentioned a word about their salary jeopardy if they refused to comply.

Five minutes later, Kristoph walked out of the building a free man.

* * *

When he returned to the hospital, the visiting hours were already long over and the nurse refused him entry. Apollo hadn't reacted to any stimuli, and he isn't going to wake up soon, they told him, and while they were at it, they told him to go home. Wash up and refresh himself, then come back tomorrow. The nurse stressed the 'wash' part, and Kristoph was vaguely aware that he smelt like the police department – sweat from clogged up space and something burned. He couldn't care less. He threatened lawsuits, and he threatened bad press, and in the end the exasperated nurse allowed him up to the thirtieth floor, where Apollo had been moved to – but just for half an hour, she added.

He acquiesced with a quiet nod – too worn out from his debacle at the precinct to do anything more than that and walked dejectedly to the elevator. He had trouble even maintaining his usual posture, and his back slumped a little when he pulled himself into the eighth floor. The hallway was silent as well – as night – since it was already pass visitors' hours and all that. Not that it made any differences though. To the people on this floor, night meant very little and visitors even less. At least the night may disrupt the Melatonin cycle of the patients – the visitors didn't even leave any effect on them. All they did was to lie on the bed, with the sheets pulled up methodically to their chests and listen to the gentle beeping of the machine beside them, measuring their heartbeat until someone decides it should stop.

For want of a better word, they were vegetables now. That was what Apollo was – a vegetable.

He opened the door into Apollo's room and paused at the door, leaning against the frame for support. He looked so pale. Was that how the dead – or nearly dead look? He had never had a chance to see his victims during their last moments but he never expected death to look so...still. So very still. Apollo looked normal enough that at one glance, you would have expected him to open his eyes and jump up. In Kristoph's case, some part of him expected Apollo to climb out to greet him – or accuse him or point his finger at him and shout at the top of lungs and display his vocal cords to his advantage - or anything at all.

All he did was lie there.

Tubes were stuck into him and it looked horrible. He looked like a mutation – a freak of nature – with the series of coloured lines running around him and the machines stuck to him. Even the oxygen tube plastered to his nose looked unnatural.

His fingers closed around one, determined to pull it out of Apollo. The rubber squeaked in protest and the whole thing shuddered as his fingers tightened around it.

A beep sounded from one of the machines, and he released it, startled. He looked down at his hand.

He had nearly ended Apollo's life again.

The knowledge made him feel tired all of a sudden – energy wooshing out of him – and he swayed, falling into the embrace of a chair.

He never had to face this, he thought. He liked poison – so handy, so simple, so...so...Controllable. You put it into something, and you leave it there. In the mean time, you move yourself to a place where people can provide alibis for you, if you're even suspected in the first place. This time he hadn't bothered with as much sneakiness – since there was no way he can stop the police from fingering at him since he was closest to Apollo. He had planned to point out that Apollo bought his juice from the school cafeteria, why should it have been any different that day? Except of course it was.

_God, how did it go so wrong?__ And how did it become so Goddamned complicated?_

It'd never been like this before. He had never needed to see his victims, or look them in the eye or be remotely related to their dead self. Once they were gone, they became a thing of the past for him, and he moved on while they don't and life went on. This time it was different – he had to face Apollo – and probably his dead body too for identification, if things had proceeded as planned. He had to live with the knowledge that he poisoned a boy who had trusted him – who had looked up to him.

Maybe it meant that he was a coward – the fact that he could kill when he didn't have to face them, but chickened out when it was someone he knew. Someone he cared for.

_Cared for?_

_Did he cared for Apollo?_

Perhaps. Probably. In his selfish little way of caring after people, he suppose. Everyone was a pawn to him – even Klavier. He was just a pawn that he cared for, that's all. He leaned forward in the chair, putting his head into his hand, and stayed there for a long time. Is this how guilt feels like? He never thought he was capable of feeling guilt, and others never thought so either. Killing is a merciless trade, except now all of a sudden he didn't have that protective little bubble of distance anymore. He sighed, exhaling a deep shaky breath. If this was how it was going to be, he wouldn't kill anyone in the future. He doubted that he could anyway – all he had to do was think of Apollo as white as his sheets and he'll turn white himself.

He'd stop killing – and when Apollo wakes up, maybe he can stop himself from forging too. Turn over a new leaf, be a better person and all that.

_Hah! What next? Charity to the underprivileged? _He mocked himself – but it was done with a small smile. He climbed up from the chair – glancing briefly at his watch. Half an hour almost up. He had gotten what he come for - relief.

He walked towards Apollo and glanced down at him. He hadn't change in the past half an hour, still white as sheet – but Kristoph thought he looked rather happier, then scolded himself for acting like a fool. He prodded Apollo's hair back into a vague impersonation of his usually antennas and smiled. Behind him, the nurse cracked open the door and poked her head in.

"Time's up." She chided gently. Kristoph nodded and turned back to Apollo. He smoothed the boy's hair off his usually gleaming forehead and took a long look at the boy who had been the closest thing to him this past few weeks. Then he lowered his head, whispering softly to him.

"Wake up soon,_ son_."

It was as tender as he could be. Apollo wanted a family – the least he could do was be one. He pulled the covers a little higher, then with one last glance at the sleeping figure, walked out of the room.

* * *

...And more OOC-ness. Well that's one question – the "Why doesn't anyone know about it?" question answered. Kinda. And now I dig myself another hole – He swore he's not gonna kill any more but what the hell – who's Zak then? Chopped liver? Eh, I'll get around to it. Sorry if there are more plot holes – my plot-making skill suck. I don't even have a master plan - just the general idea of what's going to happen, write a story, and then spin a whole yarn until it resembles nothing like the idea. =X

Also, I kept my promise Alice! This is 500 words lesser than the last chapter! xD

Let's answer the next one in the next chapter then – Why doesn't Apollo know about the forgeries during the game? You can guess the answer already, right?


	9. IX : The broken King

Alice : Vegetable is kind of a slang that means that a person is comatose – i.e, like a veggie, not responsive.

Request : Say, this chapter gave me an idea. How about... Kristoph x Lamiroir and he stole her baby because she dumped him!? Someone pweeze do it and link me please. xD (I'm already doing this Apollo-is-his-kid story, so I'm lazy to do another simillar one.)

Note : Yes Apathetic, that was the original idea. But the more I think about it, the more it strikes me as a makeshift excuse. It seems so... bland. Apollo knows, then he forgets because Kristoph pokes his brain with Atroquinine. So I went back to reading the game script....And realized that no where is Apollo truly surprised about what happened. All it says is that 'Mr. Wright' told him what happened. So... let's make it a little more...shifty then? Teehee!

Also : Mild swearing in this chapter.

* * *

_Soft, gentle mist, won't you reveal yourself to I?_

***

_IX : The broken King._

_Apollo had long since determined in a vague way that there were two places for him to be. In his dream-like state, he couldn't make many deductions, but he was sure of that much. He was either 'in' or 'out' – and sometimes, 'in between'. When he was in between, he would feel as if he was floating, like on a pile of mushroom-shaped clouds. His mind had trouble forming the words, so he projected them into images and simple thoughts instead. White and fluffy meant that he can't think or remember. If he saw Things That Are Not White, it means that he can form a few coherent thoughts._

_He liked the feeling of being 'in between'. Life was very simple when he was there. He would drift softly from one thought to another. Sometimes strange things form at the back of this mind – ideas of something that had happened, and some things that had not and he wanted them to. He couldn't place a name on them, or even a face for the voices, but he would remember vague images of things, like a sudden flashing image of a pot. When 'In between', you don't have to think about anything. It was like lying in a field, and looking up at real clouds. Thoughts cease to matter. You become larger than life, and that was the state he found himself in the most._

_But as much as he enjoyed being in between, he preferred it even more when he was 'out'. When he was out, he would feel detached, like he was someone sitting on the ceiling, looking down at a sleeping Apollo Justice. During these times, he wasn't very coherent, but he could remember simple things, and the best part was, it was like watching a film of someone else, another Apollo Justice. He doesn't quite feel any shame he once did, nor does he empathize with the scrawny brown kid. _

_He can remember, somewhere in his mind from long ago, of a woman. She was very pretty, and he rather thought he loved her a lot._

_But she had no face._

_She was sitting beside him on an empty place. It had many rows of seat that were Things That Are Not White. They, like the curtains, were the colour of the thing that comes out of people if they're hurt. He was sitting beside her, rap in attention while she sang, holding a brown, curly-haired baby. It gurgled and chewed on her hair. The little boy felt a stab of jealousy as he watched the woman croon softly to the child. Everyone seemed to love this newcomer a little more than they do him. He knew those thoughts weren't nice, and he was ashamed of himself for thinking that, so like every other human out there, he chose to think of something else to cover up his shame._

_The scene changed. The crowd was cheering like mad, pounding their hands together in a rhythm that sounded crazy to Apollo. He was standing beside the same curtains with his hands clutching them tightly, peeking out from the side of the stage at the performance going on on stage. There was an old man with a snowy white beard burning things and making things disappear, along with a younger man. He pointed a finger, and the man disappeared and the crowd screamed. They screamed so loudly that Apollo thought it was their things the man was making disappear – or maybe the other man was someone very important, like a king, and the old man had just made him disappear. He concentrated, trying to recall who those people were. He loved them, that much he knew. But remembering them made him feel lonely , like he had no one._

_The memories tire him out, and he went back to feeling 'in between'. He felt like a person sitting somewhere high up with a high-powered telescope capable of looking pass any obstacle and peering at the little brown hair child staring at the performances on stage. He drifted softly, and returned to the haze that threatened to draw him into the oblivion. So soothing._

_He noticed vague things, remembered some, relived others. Now a man was teaching him how to hold a gun. Now a blonde man would lean over his books and his glasses would glint, and he would smile at his work. Other times, a woman would come in, looking strangely tall to him, and kissing him goodnight._

_Apollo drifted._

_After some time of drifting between thoughts, he would start feeling 'in'. When he was feeling 'in', he was most coherent, but it was not a moment he cherished. When he was 'in', he would realize that something was not right, that he wasn't suppose to be lying here like this, going from thought to thought. He was suppose to be doing something, only he can't recall what he should be doing. Where was he? What was he doing here? How did he even ended up here? Those questions would claw at him and a feeling of panic would well up inside him. Unbeknown to him, the machine beside him would beep a little faster, and the lines would waver a little faster, like tensed strings. _

_It was at times like this when his memories were best, most unclouded. He could actually understand that he was the person in the memory, that even though the limbs being moved weren't moved by him, they somehow were still his._

_He saw a man talking to a fat woman with a wobbling chin that fascinated his current mind but was loathed by the him in the past. The man was smiling, but the smile wasn't real. It was stony, a lie, and it made Apollo feel horrible. _

"_We got a call from social care, and they wanted us to come in and talk to the boy."_

"_Such a thing is unnecessary. We're well past the accustomed period."_

"_I'm aware of that, and I don't want the boy back either. I mean, he just uh, seems so much happier here you know?"_

_Apollo didn't know. He could guess though, the woman just didn't want him back, period. The blonde man shook his head, and Apollo, the one dreaming, tried to recall who he was. He was someone important to him, he knew, since at every turn when he drifted off, the man, smiling a sincere smile would float into his mind. His smile assured Apollo, made him feel better, and he could drift better, a little more at peace._

"_Then there is no problem. It was merely a fisticuff of words, there is no need to come running at every loud noise you hear, Mrs. Fish." _

_Fish...Yes, that was the woman from...Somewhere. A very unpleasant place. Words were spoken, but his memory was fuzzy, and he couldn't remember._

"_Of course. You want to stay here, don't you, Apollo?" It was the blonde man that addressed him, and the woman was standing there, waiting for an answer. Apollo hesitated, and that hesitation caused uncertainty to flit across the face of the man. _

"_Yes, sir!" He shouted, just to prove his enthusiasm and reassure him. The man grinned back at him, then looked back disdainfully at the woman and started a tirade._

"_As you can see, there is no need to be concerned......"_

_He couldn't remember any more, and concentrated on other thoughts instead._

_How did he end up here? That was what he wanted to ask, so he asked it. _

_No answer came, and no question was heard. The echo around him was dense, but it was not the kind that answered him. He drifted deeper into his sleep. He could hear faint beeping sounds coming from somewhere near, and they were so...very...hypnotizing. He nodded off._

_The man was in front of him now, another day. His head was bent forward slightly as he dabbed a tiny brush into a beautiful crystal bottle, holding the withdrawn brush up to the light and examined it. _

"_Is this really necessary?" Apollo asked._

"_You know what I always say?" The man said mildly in return._

_"Yeah yeah, 'One cannot live a beautiful life without beautiful nails.' You should seriously just get a calligraphy of it and hang it on the wall or something."  
_

_"It is an idea worth examining. Now, best hand forward, if you please?"_

_Apollo muttered under his breath and handed his right hand over reluctantly. The man started brushing his nails with the colourless liquid, back and forth, back and forth, and Apollo found that it felt screechy. Like nails on blackboard, and he stated it. The man grinned and chuckled, wagging an unused finger at him._

"_Apollo, Apollo, you really need to rein in your imagination. How do you expect to be a lawyer when you run off at the slightest opportunity to accuse someone of being a unicorn?" _

"_I would never accuse anyone of being a unicorn," he protested in a huff. "Besides, those don't exist."_

_The man simply smiled and went back to the task of painting Apollo's nails. His hair reflected the warm sunlight streaming in through their flimsy white curtains, and Apollo felt a stab of envy for the man. His hair was perfectly golden, and Apollo had always wish his hair was a little less plain in colour. He was vain about his hair, and gel it often, but it was hard to be vain about it when it was interchangeable with Kristoph's table._

_Kristoph?_

_Who was that? He made a mental effort, searching around his limited brain. Kristoph was...nice. Someone he couldn't understand. Someone mysterious, and likes to eat German food, even if it looked like mashed potatoes to Apollo. He also resembled a rock star Apollo had seen on a poster once, some rock band called the Gavinners, except the lead singer had short hair and was purple all over. _

_Someone like....The man he was dreaming about. Of course, Kristoph. How could he have forgotten Kristoph? If he had been conscious, he would have kicked himself._

"_There you go." Kristoph released Apollo's hand and put the brush back into the hand shaped bottle. (How did he do that anyway? Apollo had never been able to puzzle out the bottle._

_Apollo held up his hand to examine in it the light, and Kristoph glanced at it with a self-satisfied smirk. Apollo stared long and hard at his now shiny nails, coated with a layer of the finest nail polish money can buy, and looked back at Kristoph._

"_Is there any way you can sue me so that I don't have to go to school?"_

_Laughter._

_Apollo listened to the soft laughter and drifted back into a dreamless sleep._

_

* * *

_

_He was taken out of his sleep by a sound. It was a cracking sound, one that Apollo sometimes hear and sometimes don't, and it sometimes wakes him up when he's having an 'in between' moment, or it sometimes stops him when he was dreaming about something. Some other sounds follow, that reminded Apollo of shoes tapping on the floor. He went back to dreaming about someone dancing._

_He heard more footsteps, and awoke from his dream again. He could feel someone near him. Warmth. And something else. Something pleasant. Help, he wanted to cry! I'm stuck somewhere, and I want to get out. But he couldn't even make any sound. The effort made him drowsy, and he struggled to fight against the haze, wishing the person in the room would say something to stop him from slipping back. But no, the person was just...There. In the room, but not saying anything. Not doing anything._

_Then a sudden burst of pain made everything turn white._

_He heard a squeaking sort of sound, and then it started hurting. Pain blossomed in his chest and he struggled to do something. The thing that people did with their nose. In and out. What was it called? Beating? Breathing? Yes, breathing. He couldn't breath, something was choking him, stopping him from doing it. He gasped, or at least wanted to. His body didn't respond to his brain however, and to anyone else, Apollo Justice had done nothing of that sort._

_As abruptly as it came, the pain went away, and Apollo was left listening to the soft beeping sounds. The pain made everything seemed clearer all of a sudden. The haze stopped threatening to devour him, the warmth moved away, and things lapsed back into silence._

_A long long time later, another click on the door and Apollo tensed, ready for a second assault of the pain. It didn't happen, but he heard a soft voice called out, like someone speaking from the other end of a tunnel._

"_Time's up."_

_Time's up? Who's time? His time? No! Was he going to die?_

"_Alright," he heard another voice say, this one sounding closer. The warmth came back, so the person must be beside him again. That someone pushed his hair back off his face – he could actually feel things now. It smelt like medicine. The soft things underneath him was cold. Maybe he would wake up soon. _

_The person leaned forward, and Apollo could feel warmth near his face, as well as hear the person's gentle breathing as he whispered,  
_

"_Wake up soon, son."_

_Son. What a wonderful word, son._

_People should use that word more often – all the time, in fact._

_SON SON SON SON SON SON SON SON SON, he repeated childishly._

_Anyone who would say that to him must be a wonderful person too._

_So he did just that._

_

* * *

_

Kristoph was standing in front of the elevator down the hallway when it happened. He had pushed the button, and was waiting in front of it with his head tilted up, looking as the number on the panel steadily made it's descent.

Then he heard a scream.

Kristoph – smooth, calculating Kristoph – kicked his logical part into motion then. The voice was a high pitched voice, and a female's, so it was impossible that it belonged to Apollo. Apollo's voice is anything but that, and he suspected that if Apollo had indeed been screaming in the hallway, the windows would be shattered by now.

He chuckled at the thought, and pushed his glasses back up.

Which meant of course, that the logical conclusion was that it belonged to someone else – someone who had nothing to him. If he intervened now, it would meant that he would get entangled into some kind of emergency. Right now however, he had no desire whatsoever to get sucked into another mess. He was tired, he had been up all day, and his hair was starting to fray at the edges – all he wanted was to return home and soak himself in hot water and listen to more Bach. Of course, if he intervened, he could well save a life, or at least if he couldn't, he could help someone file a lawsuit and earn himself a third.

"_Someone!"_

He heard another shout. He shrugged and chuckled. Oh well, too bad. Seeing is believing, and he hasn't seen anything. Whoever it was, she'd have to ask someone else.

The elevator dinged, and he stepped forward.

"Wait, mister!"

He sighed. Caught. How sad-making. He turned around and saw the same nurse from earlier running towards him.

"Y-Y-You--"

"What is it?" Kristoph snapped to attention, adrenaline pumping in an instant. "Did something happened to Apollo?"

"I don't know, he's having a seizure – started right after you left. Look, I'm going to get the doctor – you stop him from injuring himself!" She yelled at him, then dashed off down the hallway.

"Wait, I don't know anything about seizures!" He yelled after her disappearing figure. No answer. He swore.

First things first though, he hurried towards Apollo's room. This has got to be his worst day in all his history of worst days ever. First he got hauled in, then when he finally made the decision of becoming a better person, the person who inspired that change hits the downhill road. And if anything happened to Apollo, the police would be after him again. Right after he left? Can't be a coincident, eh?

He slammed the door open into Apollo's ward.

A seizure was a terrible sight.

Apollo was lying on the bed – but it was like the past 24 hours of non-activity had suddenly caught up with him and he was repaying his debt with ceaseless activity. He twitched, and at intervals, convulsed violently like – some part of Kristoph that was still partially calm stated, a dying fish. It was not a pleasant metaphor, and the rest of Kristoph panicked. What the hell was he supposed to do? He had never even SEEN a seizure before – much less tried to help a person with one, not that he would under normal circumstances. How was he supposed to do that anyway?

Apollo struggled, head thrown backward and shuddering. One of the cords twisted around his neck and he started making raspy choking sounds.

Kristoph lunged at the cord, trying to untangle it. But it was firmly lodged around his neck and he had to loosen it soon – Apollo made more rasping noises – or that was it, Apollo was gone. He tugged at the line, and the part of it attached to the machine squeaked in protest. He stared at the machine. He could pull it right out to loosen it, but he had no idea what cord he was holding. If it turned out to be something important...Apollo gasped again, and he made his decision, yanking the cable loose and pulling it out of the way. Apollo relaxed a little, but continued twitching, while Kristoph stood helplessly at the side.

Alright, he had this under control. He had once heard a speech once, a long time ago – from back when he was still in law school and they thought it was necessary to teach lawyer's the skills to control an epileptic patient in case their appearance cause seizures and/or heart attacks amongst the clients. So he was capable of doing this.

He was supposed to...supposed to...Lay him on his side! That's it! He tried to lift Apollo up, gritting his teeth and pulled, but Apollo pushed against him with his shoulder and struggled. Kristoph tried to hold down his hands but Apollo was displaying surprising strength despite how skinny he was. He couldn't keep one of his arms pinned down, Apollo would just struggle free. In the end he had to shove Apollo, and Apollo fell onto his side, grinding his teeth and making a horrible sound. Several of the cables connecting Apollo to the machine was severed in the struggle. He didn't looked much improved to Kristoph.

Dammit, where were the doctors?

He opened the door and hollered, but there was no sign of the nurse, or any of the doctors that she was supposed to bring. He walked back into the room and stared at the convulsing figure helplessly, clenching and unclenching his fist. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing he KNEW how to do and he clawed at his palm with his nails to fight the feeling of frustration that welled up like bile itself. He hated this. He was perfect in every way. Supposed to be. But he can't even help Apollo when he was suffering.

He stood there for one whole minute, pacing up and down occasionally, trying to pin Apollo down when there was a particularly wild convulsion before a black haired doctor stormed in with two male nurses hurrying after him. The doctor, seeing Apollo's state, gestured to the two nurses to hold Apollo down.

"But we're not supposed to hold down a seizure case." One of the nurses stated. The doctor waved his arm and started preparing the equipment he had brought.

"Yes, but the patient is already weak from poisoning in the first place. If the seizure continues, he'll be gone in minutes. We're going to have to force his brain to calm down." He muttered, producing a syringe. The liquid inside gleamed at Kristoph. He swallowed at the idea of drugging Apollo.

"I need some fresh air." He announced, and left the room. He didn't want to be in the room when they put him to sleep. The doctor grunted in answer, and he was gone.

* * *

Kristoph leaned against the wall outside the room, determined to be facing away from Apollo's room. He was so tired that he nearly slipped and fell. His nerves were raw and shaky, and his hands shook. He was tired beyond the scope of what the word would usually include. He was bushed. Fatigued. Brain-dead. You name it. He slide down a little from where his back had been leaning on the wall for support. His legs gave way, and he fell right onto the ground, sitting on the floor with his knee propped up. He was too tired to even stand up, or be fussy about the dirt on his clothes. Was there such a word as Super-Tired? Maybe he should invent one.

He was exhausted, both mentally and physically – all he wanted know was for it – whatever it was, to be over. He wanted the doctor to come out, tell him what was wrong with Apollo, if he was going to live, if he was going to die, and that he could go home. Whatever the news was, he just wanted to crawl back home and into a bed – then he can start feeling emotions tomorrow. He rubbed his face and massaged his lids.

Half an hour later, the doctor came out of the room while the two nurses remained on guard in case there was a second seizure.

"How is he, doctor?" Kristoph asked, climbing up from the ground and dusting himself off in a lame effort to make himself presentable.

The doctor didn't answer, merely gestured for Kristoph to follow him – and he did. They traveled down all the way to the first floor, where the doctors' offices and the staff room was located in silence.

The room the doctor had was pretty generic. White washed walls, pale green curtains that separated the office into two compartments with a desk each so that it can be occupied by two doctors. The paperworks were stashed at one corner of the room, piled from the ground up high and covering even the window. A name plate on the table proclaimed 'White', and the doctor gestured at the chair. He plopped down onto it.

"How is he, doctor?" He repeated his question earnestly. The doctor grunted, and Kristoph took his cue. As a general thing – doctors did not like lawyers. They're the ones who file lawsuits against them for malpractice caused by the state driving them to work 52 hours a day, and they're the ones who call on them to provide testimonies in court, resulting in time being wasted and patients left untreated. No, he was giving him an unsubtle hint that he didn't want to be friendly.

"He's recuperating, that's all I can say for now. "

"What the hell does that even mean?" He snapped, angered and beyond dignified conversation suddenly. All this doctors and their sue-proof way of talking..."Is he alright or is he not alright? Going to live, or heading to a morgue? Why did that happen just now? Stop summarizing a situation into one bloody word."

The doctor grinned at him, pleased at his frustrated tone. "Long story short, the kid got hit by a seizure when he woke up from the coma. It doesn't happen often, but it does some times. It's kind of like when someone shakes you awake, multiplied by about a factor of hundred."

"So his brain overworked?"

"Now who's oversimplifying things?" The doctor muttered, scribbling on a piece of paperwork, probably to document the incident.

"Shut up or I'll sue your ass." Kristoph snapped. He was not having a good day. Smart-mouthed doctors were on the end of his wish-list. "Is there anything specific that can cause it?"

The doctor grinned, still looking at the paperwork. Frazzled lawyers, he liked. "I don't know," he stated. Kristoph opened his mouth to blister him, and he cut him off. "And before you start in on my license, that's just it – you can ask anyone in the building, and they'll tell you – they don't know. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar and a shit."

"But if you have to guess?"

The doctor's upper lip pulled up, as though contemplating a not particularly tasty slug.

"Off the record?"

Kristoph nodded.

"Alright. If I gotta guess, it's probably trauma of some kind. What makes you panicky?"

"Panicky?"

'That's right. It could be something like a dream he had while comatose, it could be something as simple as machine malfunctioning. But either way – what would scare him and cause distress would have a chance of causing it."

"As in, he's panicking and wants to wake up, so his brain just fires up?"

"Yeap. Over-fired, in this case."

"I see."

Kristoph trailed off, staring at a crack on the white wall paint, ignored by the doctor, who resumed his paperwork. To the doctor, he seemed almost dazed. Suddenly, he interrupted the doctor.

"You mentioned machine malfunction earlier. Like what kind of malfunction?"

"If you're thinking of a lawsuit against me or the hospital, give it up. I know a pretty good lawyer myself, and you can't prove that the machine malfunctioned anyway."

"I'm not thinking of suing anybody," Kristoph grind out, frustrated. "I just want to know, what kind of malfunction would cause it?"

"I don't know, plenty. If you whack it with a baseball bat a couple of times it'll malfunction. If you pull out a couple of plugs, then stick it back wrongly, it'll malfunction. If it's made in china, it'll malfunction too." The doctor joked, chuckling a little at his own joke. Kristoph remained stony.

"What if one of the tubes were temporarily blocked?"

"Depends on which one. If it's just the measuring ones, then all it would do is show that the kid died on the screen. No big deal." he regarded Kristoph, suddenly suspicious. "Why do you ask?"

He ignored the question "Is there any tube that could have caused it?"

"Maybe. If it's oxygen one, he'll probably be deprived of oxygen and panic. Though if it's really blocked though, he would be dead, not having a seizure."  
Kristoph tried to remember. What was the tube he had squeezed for? He couldn't remember, since he had been in a daze over the whole situation.

"Is there something you're not telling me, Mr. Gavin?" The doctor asked, narrowing his eyes at Kristoph, but his mind was spinning too fast to grasp something as small and unworldly as suspicion.

"I have to go..." He muttered under his breath, pulling himself up and swaying a little. His body was tired, but his brain was working overtime. "... to go home. Yes, I have to go home."

He exhaled a shaky breath and the doctor watched as he clumsily staggered out into the hallway, then home.

_

* * *

_

_Sunlight hurts when you've been drinking._

That was the first thought that crossed Kristoph's mind when he woke up the next day. His second thought was much less polite, and he burrowed deeper into the bed, still in his clothes from the previous night – though the coat was lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. The alarm had started shrieking when he climbed into Apollo's bed – since it was set at seven and it was seven, Apollo usually being an early riser – and it now laid in a heap beside his coat too, the glass covering it's front shattered and lying on the ground in pieces. The bed smelled nice. Like Apollo. All soap and no cologne for the boy. He buried his head in the pillow and refused to look up. The sun pierced in from the window right next to the bed, and he pulled down the blinds, grappling for the rope because his head pounded like a college boy's boombox and he had no wish to look into the sun and have it fried like an egg.

He slept some more. At twelve, he staggered up to pour himself another glass of wine and crawled back to bed after replying his secretary's mail. No he wasn't going to show up for work today. No, your pay won't be docked. Yes, it's an emergency. No, I don't want to tell you.

Where the hell was a decent secretary when he needed one? All of them were so bloody incompetent. So the door to the office is shut. Is it going to kill you to take a day off? But noooooooo, everyone was so worried he's going to fire them, or throw them out of the firm, or just dissolve it outright. He wished he still had Apollo as an assistant. At least while he couldn't tell discretion from desecration, he was a competent one.

At the thought of Apollo, the events of the previous night came back to him again. He poured himself another glass of wine and swallowed it with sleeping pills. He went back to sleep.

* * *

_Thirteen years hard time of loooooooooooooooove~_

_Sun of a beach._

Kristoph covered his ears with the pillow, ignoring the phone on Apollo's study table, and Klavier's voice continued to croon/shriek(?). Kristoph wondered why he had put his brother's song as his ring tone. Definitely not a good choice, especially when you're having, and is nurturing, a hangover. He ignored his brother's voice and stared at the wall beside him. Walls were so fascinating. Why hadn't he gotten a job as a wall-painter? Think of all the fun he would have. And he wouldn't need to forge anything either. Unless that something was a paint brush. Now that's a good idea! He giggled at the thought.

_Thirteen years baby, and I'm still waiting~_

_Oh shut the fuck up._

He was going to have to have to talk to Klavier about his songs. He climbed out of bed and grabbed the phone, disconnecting it without a glance with two stabs from his thumb. He winced. He broke his nail last night pinning Apollo down. He threw the phone onto the bed and slept on it, taking a gulp of wine first.

_Thirteen years hard time of looooooooooo--_

_For the love of God--_

He snatched up the phone for a second time and hit the green button.

"Who the hell is this?"

"Uh-- Huh?"

"Who the heck are you?"

"Didn't you...see the caller's ID?"

"No I'm not obligated to."

"Oh uh...Okay. It's Klavier, ja?"

"Oh. Klavier." Kristoph downed the wine in one gulp, and rasped out. "How're you doin', Klavier." His words sounded slurred, even to him.

"Alles in bester Ordnung.* But you...You do not sound fine, Kris."

"And they made you judge and jury of that when?" Kristoph snapped back. "I'm jurst waking up, that's all. Jursst. Just. Yeah, just."

"Waking up? But isn't it like one in the afternoon now?" Klavier said sharply. "What are you doing waking so late?"

"What's with the interrogation, Klavier?" he waved his wineglass, agitated. "I don't need you to tell me when I should be waking up."

The wineglass slipped from his fingers and ended on the ground with a crash, shattering into a million pieces. Kristoph stared at it, fascinated. Klavier was not.

"What was that sound? _Gott_, did something just broke?"

"I think...It died, Klavier."

"Died?" The voiced repeated. "What died?"

"The glass," Kristoph moaned.

"The glass...died?"

Kristoph nodded, then cringed at the sharp pain his his head. He clumsily staggered back into bed.

"Yes, the glass died." Not died. There was another word. Can't remember. Don't want to remember. He just wanted to go to sleep. Why was his brother badgering him?

"Okay, you know what? I'm going to head over. Now. You're at home?" Kristoph nodded weakly, then realizing Klavier couldn't see him, grunted.

"Alright. I'm in L.A right now, but I should be there in about 6 hours. Don't do anything stupid, okay?"

He was irritated by that and snapped at him. "Stop talking like mother. You're not her."

Then he hung up, off his phone and went back to sleep.

* * *

**Apollo Justice woke up at thirty-two minutes past one. The attempt made to contact Kristoph Gavin, appointed guardian of Apollo Justice has failed. Patient exhibit signs of distress to the state of his guardian's presence before lapsing back to sleep. Condition is deemed stable.**

**Sr. Intern White.**

* * *

"You look beschissen*, Kris."

"Why thank you, dearest brother. Why don't leave your shit-awful brother alone then?"

"I can't. Look at you, ach, your house's a mess. And why are your curled up in my old room?" Klavier narrowed his eyes at the books lining the shelves and the new furniture. "You have been using this room?"

To say yes was to lie, and they both knew it. Kristoph was meticulous to the point of obsessive, and even if the floor was a mess now, he couldn't have messed everything in the room in his drunken state. Someone else, someone slightly messier than he had been living here.

Klavier pointed at a row of beginner law books. "Whose were those?"

"Mine, actually." Well, technically anyway.

"Stop being being an ass. Who was living here?"

"You want to know?" Kristoph asked. "Are you sure? You might just have to have your dear old brother all locked up somewhere." He laughed a grimacing sort of laugh at that.

"Just tell me, I'm twenty already, not a baby."

Kristoph sneered and started talking.

* * *

He had talked and talked and talked. He had talked until his throat was sore, then talked while Klavier prepared a foul cure for hangover for him that smelled like bad eggs. He talked all through the dinner Klavier force-fed him, and he talked all the way right home. He had never talked so much in life and felt so little like talking, but he talked anyway. He told him of his visit to the orphanage, though he left out the forger bits. He told him he adopted Apollo, but told him it was because he was lonely and not hoping to keep an eye on a variant factor like he really was. He told him Apollo was in the hospital, and he told him he was poisoned and the seizure and the cause – but he left out the bit about who poisoned him.

It seemed to him that for everything he told Klavier, he left out half of it. His life like was like a jigsaw puzzle where everyone held a piece, but no one had the real picture. The closest person to completing it was having nasal tubes stuck in him now, and even he hadn't been close to the true scope of his diabolical self.

How pathetic was that, he wondered? Or maybe it was a sign of his genius. Geniuses rarely are understood after all.

"Can I meet this Apollo Justice, Kris?"

Kristoph's head shot up from where he had been nurturing a non-alcoholic grape juice and listening to the soft swirling music of Bach. They had return home an hour earlier from dinner and were enjoying a quiet night with silence as their mistresses. "Why, do you wish to?"

Klavier nodded." Ja, I wish to see who this boy is that intrigues so much you have gone ahead and adopted him."

"Don't say it like that Klavier. If this was a written work, people would be calling it innuendo already."

He laughed, then pressed the question. "Then, may I?"

"Perhaps, Klavier, though not soon. If he wakes up, I don't wish to burden him with introductions."

"Someday then, eh?"

Kristoph did some calculations. He was never far from them, no matter how distraught.

"You're leaving on a world-tour soon though aren't you?"

"Yes, a tour from country to country around Europe. We have planned a trip where we may serve the law at every destination."

"I will never understand your obsession with your moonlighting life."

Klavier chuckled and said, "Though it means that you are saved from the bothersome chore of introducing us for four years yet. I will not be returning any time soon."

Kristoph smiled a little at that. No one to see through his ploy little ploys like Klavier. "I don't wish to tire him out, that's all."

Klavier stood and stared at the window and the night outside. The snow was light today, if at all. "How's the boy like?"

"He's...straightforward."

"Ach, sounds boring."

"Perhaps, but he has rather the sense of humour too, though it is not often he shows it to strangers."

"He'll join your firm in the future, I presume?"

Kristoph looked up. "Yes."

"I saw his reading interests in his room." Klavier answered his questioning look.

"Ah." he swirled his grape juice out of habit. Vongole rubbed itself on Klavier's leg like a cat, happy to get company other than her moody master.

"Have you heard news from the hospital, incidentally?"

Kristoph gasped, bolting up from the chair. "That reminds me, I've had it off since this afternoon."

He walked off into Apollo's room to retrieve it and returned to the living room with it.

"Messages?"

Kristoph glanced at the inbox. Five from the hospital. His breath hitched, and he read it quickly to avoid Klavier's scrutinizing glance.

"It says he...woke up." He looked up at Klavier with a dazed look on his face, like a man who had just won a fortune and can't quite imagine it. "He woke up, Klavier."

"Guess I'll be meeting him sooner than we thought eh?" Klavier grinned at him. At that moment, Kristoph was too happy to care about secrets.

* * *

Note : Nowhere is it mentioned that Klavier does not know about Apollo prior to case 2. All he says is "I want to see the little boy that defeated my brother." That could almost be taken for vengeance, couldn't it? Mwahaha. In case you don't get the part where Kristoph had messed with the machine, quote from the previous chapter :

"His fingers closed around one, determined to pull it out of Apollo. The rubber squeaked in protest and the whole thing shuddered as his fingers tightened around it.A beep sounded from one of the machines, and he released it, startled. He looked down at his hand."

from the previous chapter. Short isn't it? But it carries plenty of significance. Just goes to show why you should never take little details for granted. xD

Also, all medical references are based loosely on conjecture from friends. If there's something that contradicts all humanity, please just pretend it doesn't exist.

*Alles in bester Ordnung. : Everything's okay.

* beschissen : Shit-awful


	10. X : Rotation

Note : Heavily dialogue-ed chapter. One may argue that I've OOC'd Apollo (again) but he's always had a sarcastic side in AJAA. He just doesn't show it much. And...I seriously love Apollo in here LOL xD And yes, forgot to mention in the previous chapter : Dr. White is an OC. If you can't already figure it out, d'oh.

Finished note : Oh my god. This chapter is even longer, at 8000 words. -__- (I am getting tired proof-reading it LOL ) I'm so sorry! By the way, I just noticed while I'm submitting this that 10 happens to be the number of the wheel of fortune in the tarot, way after I keyed in the title. Funny how life works that way. o_o (Random observation.)

* * *

_Spin spin, O wheel of fate;_

_And when thou stop, all hell shall break loose;_

***

_X: Rotation_

When Klavier had first barged into Kristoph's apartment both unwanted and unwelcomed, the first thing he had noticed was the sheer ...Difference of the place. The last time he had been in this apartment was many years back, shortly after Kristoph shot up in fame after successfully defending an influential senator in a near-doomed situation - He had stayed for a while, while he studied for the bar in America, and the place had been meticulously clean, neat, and absolutely spotless. No amount of dirt or grit was allowed on his floorboards – Kristoph is a hypochondriac of the highest order.

Everything in the house had a stamp on it that practically shriek to anyone who knew the man : KRISTOPH KRISTOPH KRISTOPH. Not so now. The place was so changed from the last time he had been there that he had backed up a step to look at the door, then down the hallway. Crickets chirp. No other door on the floor, so it must be the right one then.

Throughout his entire conversation with his brother he had noted little things that were out of place. An extremely ugly painting on the wall grinned at him with Kristoph's prodigy's name scrawled at the bottom. Tables were cluttered with serious-looking books – sleepy if you ask Klavier and.._.What is that? Ah-hah! He has found a magazine most inappropriate slotted between the books!_ – and the chairs doubled as shelves for school paperwork.

"Who is that?" He had asked, pointing at a cut-out clipping of a lawyer with antennae-like hair holding a disproportionately large award shaped like a hammer stuck to the wall.

"Hunh." Was Kristoph's answer. "Some lawyer he saw in a magazine that he fancied."

And that was all he would say one the subject. Kristoph was usually tight-lipped, but his lips were like clam shells this time around – he had barely spoken more than the necessary after the initial barrage of information. Klavier was curious as to who this boy was, whom Kristoph had not only allowed into his life, but had messed it up and flushed it down and turn it around. The boy whom, he was heading to meet right now with Kristoph.

"Kristoph, can you please slow down?" He yelled after his brother's disappearing figure. The pavement leading towards the hospital was dark that time of the night, and barely anyone was on it. In fact, there was the none. The occasional hobo tromped up and down the street, waving their empty bottles, but no sign of activity was visible. "The hospital isn't going anywhere, so why are we running towards it like the hell itself is after us?"

"No." He snapped back, not even bothering to look behind. Klavier trailed after his demon-possessed brother in a huff.

"...You act like you're running off to meet your long lost lover, jeez..." Klavier mouthed under his breath. Kristoph stopped in the middle of his tracks and turned around, and Klavier rammed into him. He recoiled, rubbing his injured nose.

"I heard that!" He hissed.

"Well, it's true." Klavier retorted. "Seriously, he's not going anywhere. Take a break, smell the flowers! You're always so pent up, Kris."

"Feel free to take a break and smell the flowers."

Klavier grinned at him. "I knew you weren't actually a stick."

"A-a stick?" Kristoph stared at him agog. "I am most definitely NOT a stick."

"You are. In the mud, I might add." He grinned at his brother's dumbfounded expression. "So can we? Take a break and smell the flowers I mean. Actually, I kind of need to go..."

"I see Europe has not taught you manners," Kristoph muttered. "And feel free to smell the flowers..."

"Sweet!"

"Alone. I'm heading up." And with that he kicked his heels and turned to head into the hospital.

"H-Hey! Jerk!" Klavier yelled after him as he ran after him pass the sliding glass doors. An old woman looked over her nose and thick-rimmed horn glasses at him and shush him. He grinned sheepishly - the hospital, like the road outside was as still and quiet as well...Night and his voiced made an unnatural echo in it. The lobby of the hospital was dimly lighted, like a scene out of a zombie-horror movie and smelled of sickly medication – with only two staff of the medical arm leaning on the counter, flirting with each other.

"Dr. White." His brother said, inclining his head at the doctor teasing the nurse behind the counter. Seeing the man, the doctor's face hardened and assumed a craggy demeanour.

"Oh hey! If it isn't the studious lawyer himself. How ya doin', folks? Glad to see my five notices finally got through your inbox."

Kristoph pursed his lips and bit back a no-doubt acidic retort. "I was...Distracted."

The doctor glanced at him, then at Kristoph. "Hunh. Distracted huh? Wait...Don't tell me – What kind of distracted did you say it was again?" He scratched his chin, which showed the slightest hint of stubble, with a sly grin.

Kristoph blinked. "He's my brother."

"Oh. There you went and ruin my wet dream." White projected a mock-sigh and slumped his shoulders forwards with a look that suggested serious bereavement. Klavier had to chuckle at that one. He stepped forward to introduce himself.

"Klavier Gavin, nice to meet you."

A grunt. "You sure you're his brother and not his second kid or something?"

"I'm sure," Kristoph snapped. "How is Apollo?"

White leaned onto the counter on his elbow, answering nonchalantly. "Dead."

"What?" Kristoph stuttered. "But you- the message -"

"Yeah, well, that was hours ago. Kid woke up, kid died. Happens all the time." He slapped Kristoph's back, who was sporting a stunned expression. Klavier looked at the him questioningly and he winked at him. Ah...Klavier brought up a hand to hide his smile. A joke then. The perfect thing to loosen up his brother.

"I—He's really dead?"

"Yeap, iced. Packed and ready for consumption."

"But that's- It was just a couple of hours ago!" He narrowed his eyes at the good doctor. "This isn't some kind of joke, is it?"

"Of COURSE not!" The doctor announced loudly, with a hand to his heart. "You doubt me?"

"No but I--" Kristoph stopped mid sentence. Then he asked quietly, looking broodingly at the tiles. "Can I see him?"

The doctor stared at him. "Uh—See him?"

"Yes. Can I?"

"I um- well. That's to say – He's dead, ain't he?"

Kristoph looked aside. "So? How does death impinged upon my ability to see him?" He snapped, a touch defensive.

And that was it. Klavier couldn't hold it in anymore – the sheer incredulity of the situation and the expression on both Kristoph's face and Dr. White – a resigned look on one and an utterly dumbfounded look on the other – as though it never once occurred to him that Kristoph would want to see Apollo's dead self. He wiggled horizontally to Kristoph's back to shield himself from his line of sight and burst into laughter. It was the hardest thing ever to do – to laugh and not make a sound at the same time – and he failed miserably, snorting like a horse.

"Klavier, why are you --" Kristoph stopped dead, staring at his self. He was laughing so hard his whole body shook and he was doubled over, half falling onto the ground.

"O-Oh my _Gott,_ Kristoph, if you can only see y-your face--"

Kristoph turned around to pin a gulping Dr. White with a death-stare. "You..." He snarled.

"Okay, okay, now listen here!" The doctor inched backwards. Kristoph advanced, flexing an angry scarred hand. "One, violence in the hospital premise is not good for your health."

"...Should have..." He swung a fist at his direction.

"Two, even if you break me into three pieces – and that's actually really hard to do mind you," The doctor ducked a blow. The old lady started shouting at the top of her voice for Kristoph and the doctor to cut it out, waving her arms at Klavier to help break up the fight, but he was still immobilized by laughter. "Well, this is a hospital, so they can patch me up real quick, and I won't even have a scar to -WATCH THAT FACE – brag to beer buddies about."

"...been aborted..." A swipe at his head.

"Wow, that's harsh, I mean really --

Another.

"-- Abortion might have deprived society of an excellent healer." He made a bad turn and ended up in a corner of the lobby.

"BEFORE BEING A MENACE TO SOCIETY!" Kristoph snarled and lunged at the cornered doctor--- before being pulled off by Klavier just in time.

"Chill, _bruder_. Just because you have no sense of humour, we're free to have it you know," Klavier said to Kristoph, who was racked with shudders from the effort it took him to restrain himself. "It's under the little clause called free will."

"It's not funny!"

"Yes it is! I laughed at you!"

"That's the point, it's not funny to me! And there's nothing funny about making Apollo out to be dead!" He backed off, still panting. "You-- He pointed a finger at Klavier – stop laughing before I po--"

His mouth snapped shut in mid-sentence. Klavier looked at him questioningly – what had he been about to say?

"Before you what? Po---und me? Po---ooounch me? Pooo-uncee on me?"

Kristoph straightened himself, and muttered, not quite meeting Klavier's eye. "Let's just go. It was a slip, that's all."

Sure didn't sound like that. "Ya kay, Kris? You look frazzled. Why don't we come back tomorrow?"

"No. The joke might be real then."

Touché. The doctor nodded, and lead them to the elevator, and the both of them trailed after him – suddenly as somber as a funeral.

* * *

Klavier leaned against the whitewashed walls of the twenty-second floor, where Apollo had been moved following his stable condition and turned his head so that he faced the room Apollo had been stationed in – a homey private ward with it's own television set that must cost Kristoph at least a couple of hundreds a night. The hallways here were a little brighter than those on thirtieth floor, Kristoph commented on their way down the hall, pointing at the fluorescent lights basking the company in it's sickly glow – but that was the only thing he had said during the entire trip up - the whole trip had lasted in complete silence. It seemed that the joke had left a bad taste in Kristoph mouth, and he was reluctant to speak himself.

Despite how entertaining the little incident, he had to admit that there was another change he hadn't observed while he was first entered the apartment – something he had noticed when Kristoph lashed out at the doctor. There was more than the shallow physical changes in their house – there was a change in it's owner – Kristoph himself too.

He watched as Kristoph walked into the room. A pale, sickly looking boy – though he supposed it was to be expected - the sole occupant of the room. The kid, and he called him a kid, even though he wasn't that much younger than himself – was buried under a thick layer of blankets. Kristoph stood beside the bed quietly, silently – but the kid must have sensed he was there anyway, because he struggled to open his eyes. The kid – Apollo, he reminded himself. The kid had a name, not just some faceless person in a faceless crowd – squinted at Kristoph, and Kristoph immediately turned down the light beside him. Apollo grinned and said something, and Kristoph grinned back.

Kristoph never used to show very much expression at all. He was the model of everything that had gone right – the American dream, with a touch of sputzah in the form of an irresponsible rock-god brother – and he was the patriarch of everything stony too. He was like a statue chiseled from Michelangelo's hands – perfect. But that was it, nothing more than stone and cold marble. But he was different now. Today. He wasn't just bottling everything he felt inside him. When he was sad, he grimaced, he mopped. When he was angry, like at the lobby earlier, he showed it. He snapped, he snarled - not maintain the smooth facade of an expressionless man.

The kid tried to get up, pushing hard on the bed to lift himself up. Kristoph frowned at him, saying something. Despite the glass there (Apparently, humanity has given up on privacy in an attempt to be more accessible in case of an emergency) he couldn't make out what they were saying. The walls were thick, and this was the hospital. Kristoph wouldn't shout in here, he wouldn't shout anywhere. Apollo grinned sheepishly, biting his lip – then scowled in concentration, pulling himself up. He succeeded somewhat, and leaned lazily onto a pillow Kristoph propped up with a self-satisfied smile like the cat's that's got the cream. He said something, Kristoph laughed.

Outside, Klavier smiled too. He knew his brother wasn't the paragon of perfection he is taken for – far from it. But maybe he COULD change. Maybe the kid was a nice influence. His phone rang, and he snapped it out. Daryan. He glanced at the two person secluded in their own little world, and walked off to answer his call.

* * *

"...And then I asked him, why does this medication taste like strawberries?" Apollo said from below a white blanket, grinning up at Kristoph, all cheer and spunk. "And you know what he said?"

"No, what?" Kristoph tilted his head with an indulgent smile. It was nice to see Apollo bouncing back after being so sick.

"It was his girlfriend's lunch! He took it by mistake and I ate it!" Apollo laughed, and Kristoph chuckled with him.

"He IS a rather terrible doctor." He allowed, smiling.

"Oh no no, he's a really good one. Just a terrible person." Apollo glanced behind him, at the direction of the window. "Hey..."

"Hmm?"

Kristoph turned around to look too, but no one was there.

"I thought I saw..." Apollo frowned at him. "No, never mind I must be seeing things." He stared at the spot he had left Klavier at earlier harder. "I could have sworn I saw this guy from a poster standing right there."

"It must be your mind playing tricks."

"Yeah," Apollo grinned again, pointing at the television. "Can you turn it on? I've been dying to see the news."

Kristoph got up with a heavy mock-sigh. "You and your news, Apollo. "

"It's not as bad as your nail polish – at least mine serves a purpose : To educate the_ ignorant_ of what's happening."

"Fair enough. I will let that slur against nail polish slide." He switched on the television and turned down the volume a little. Come to think of it, he was dying to know what was on the news too. He hadn't had time to check neither the news nor the paper since he's little... tête-à-tête with the chief police. He would have to examine the news log later for any possible mention of a poisoned boy.

The news rolled on, a repeat of the news program from earlier in the night, and the female newscaster begin to drone on about the news. A pair of celebrities photographed together. The chief police of Los Angeles making an offensive remark about a senator. Senator shit-fights. A skirmish in some unknown and unheard of part of the world. No mention of poisoned victims anywhere.

"Huh..." Apollo made a strange sound from the bed. He was straining his neck a little, trying to get a better view of the television.

"Did you pulled something?" He inquired.

"No no, it's just...Heh." Apollo chuckled. The chuckle turned into a cough, then a series of them, and Kristoph frowned at him. "I just....It's funny." He paused, staring into space. "I got admitted into the hospital, and it feels like such a big deal to me. But then I turn on the news and I realize exactly how insignificant my ordeal is compared to the news out there."

The newscaster droned on in the lapse.

"It's just that. Then I hear news about some celebrity being reported to be talking all chummy-like to some other celebrity, and then I wonder : THIS is more important than the massive amount of car wrecks and deaths and murders out there? Some guy liking some girl?"

Kristoph's head snapped up at the mention of the word 'murder'. A long moment of silence, in which they stared at each other, like adversaries before a match.

"Do I know, is that what you want to ask?" Apollo was looking at him with his unwavering gaze. "The answer's no." He stated, but Kristoph couldn't relax. His next words proved it. "But I can guess, and I can guess quite a lot."

He stared at the newscaster.

"Don't dare to even look me in the eye?"

He didn't.

"Chickenshit."

Kristoph smiled a little at that one. "That's an interesting euphemism."

"It's an apt one." That cut the smile off.

"How did you figure it out?"

"By using my brain. Beep. Wrong question, Mr. Gavin, sir. Try again." he snapped.

"When then?"

"When you're comatose there isn't much else to think about, other than why you happened to be so."

"Ah." Kristoph continued staring into the television screen without registering a single iota of what the woman was saying. "What gave it away?"

"Oh, um, hey. Maybe the fact that you show up at my school, blabbering like crazy, and then shortly afterwards I get sick from drinking the juice YOU gave me?" Apollo sneered at him. "Get real Kristoph, I'm not stupid. I can piece it together."

He refused to look at him.

"So then the next question is why? Why did you do it?" He announced in a falsetto. "And the simplest answer seems to be : Because I 'know'. Am I right, _father _?" The last word was a vicious bite, to remind him that he was the one who signed up for him in the first place.

"Well, aren't I?" he repeated in a snarl.

"Yes," Kristoph stated simply. That seemed to stun Apollo, the confession, and they lapse into awkward silence. The newscaster was rattling off football results.

"So what do you want now, now that you know? A brand new law thriller?" He joked, in an attempt to lighten the situation. It played to an empty audience – Apollo's face remained stony.

"I want out." He announced. Kristoph's heart skipped a beat.

"Out?"

"Yeah, you heard me. I want out. Just send me back to the Fish. Tell her I broke your favourite vase. Tell her I'm a jerk. Tell her _I'M_ the psychopath, just send me back HOME."

Kristoph did not miss the slur.

"May I ask why?" He asked mildly.

"Gee, I don't know, Mr. GRANT. I'm not really a fan of your cuisine. Maybe that's why?"

"Don't behave like a child, Apollo. This isn't a mud-fight."

"Okay. So let's behave like an adult then. Maybe I should start by forging an Apollo. How does that sound? I should pay someone in a dark alley somewhere in New York to have a fake me made, maybe with glitter too. You know glitter, Kristoph? It's that shiny shiny thing people put on cards. Heard it's really popular these days." Kristoph grounded his teeth in respond.

"Then I can get myself a kid! Not the goat, the real kind I mean. The kind that you actually have to assume responsibility for? Gosh, I wonder if I'm up for it. But that's okay, everyone seems to be doing it anyway and it's fine! If things don't work out, I'll just give him a lethal dose of Cyanide, just between the two of us, like a bonding sorta thing, know what I mean?"

Apollo's voice started getting louder, and both his fists were clenched tightly in the sheets.

"Then while I'm at it, why don't I go ahead and butter up some fat cat to bail me out of trouble when I get convicted for it?"

Kristoph stared at him, his pulse quickening. _How had he --_

His surprise did not escape Apollo. "And once more, ladies and gentlemen, the question is : How does he know? No doubt the great and almighty Kristoph Gavin wouldn't leave trails for some wannabe stupid kid out of the suburbs to find. And...golly, isn't the answer simple?" He smiled a sickly sweet smile."The news, honey. It's not hard to figure it out. Kid got poisoned by own father, end quote. Surely that's more sensational than a bomb exploding somewhere Americans have never even heard of? Straight right out of the oven and in this very own city too! How does a person cover all that shit up? Can't be by licking it himself. No indeed, he must have contacts to help him eat up the muck."

Apollo finished with a grand flourish of his hand, then lapse into a violent cough. Kristoph got up to pat his back. Apollo shove him away.

"Don't touch me." He bit out. Kristoph winced as if he was slapped. The effort made him cough again – but this time Kristoph didn't lay a hand on him. Apollo was staring at his hand like it was poisonous.

"So...What do you plan to do if I do send you home?" He asked quietly.

"WHEN you send me home. I'm serious, Kristoph. Stick me back in the orphanage or you'll have to come after me with a gun to stop me from blabbing on you."

"The question remains."

A muscle twitched in Apollo's tightly clenched jaw. "I don't know. Apply for a scholarship. Failing that, I'll just...live? It's not that hard to live without a scrap of paper. God knows the paper doesn't guarantee sanity of mind." He lashed out another verbal blow, but the venom was mostly gone. He was getting tired too.

"At least..." The words caught in his throat. "...At least let me help you."

"I don't need your sympathy," Apollo spat out. "All I want is a paper, and being free of you. All else is secondary."

"And if I say I'm sorry?" The question was said softly, but Apollo heard it nonetheless.

"Sorry...?" His fist twisted the fabric around it, creasing it, clawing into it until it resembled a violent vortex. "Sorry? So what if you say sorry, Kristoph? What's so great and awesome about your 'sorry' that it has to make a difference in anything? Why is everything about _you_? KRISTOPH KRISTOPH KRISTOPH KRISTOPH, that's what all of these is about, isn't it? You forge stuff 'cuz it helps YOU win, 'cuz it makes YOU famous. You poison me, and who knows who else because we could reveal dirt on YOU, don't you?"

He couldn't get up to hit him or shout at him effectively, so he snatched up a cup sitting on the bed-table and flung it at Kristoph's head. Kristoph sidestepped it, and it shattered on the wall. Apollo's voice rose a dozen octaves higher, his voices fraying a little at it's edges from the volume, his body shaking from the strain.

"-- AND ALL THESE, ALL THESE CRAP IS BECAUSE YOU WANT SOMETHING, OR YOU DON'T LIKE SOMETHING, OR BECAUSE YOU'RE JUST PLAIN _SELFISH! _Tell me Kristoph! What's so great about that word of yours that can undo everything you've done? Because you're sorry, because you vow to be better, verdicts can be changed? Or the noose around the convicted's neck can magically untwist itself, and he'll rise back to life? Huh? _ANSWER ME!! _"

The room shuddered at the strain of his volume. Kristoph had nothing to say. Apollo was tired of saying. They stared at each other, two adversaries locked in a problem that neither had a solution to.

Silence, and Apollo's heavy breathing from the exertion.

"...If I may say something?"

The both of them jumped, noticing for the first time the head poking through a slight opened door.

"Ah, silence is good then. Silence is acceptance." Dr. White strolled into the room as though he owned the place. Come to think of it, maybe he did.

Surprisingly, it was Apollo who voiced the question. "D-Did you--" He turned pale at the implication of what he could have overhead, looking over at Kristoph. Kristoph showed no emotion, and Apollo swallowed, turning away.

"Did I hear what was being said? Well, it's kind of hard not to. Bravo kid, you probably just earn the hospital a cool million in hearing aid." He randomly picked a chair and dropped into it. "So, what's this I hear about forgeries? Sounds juicy, not to mention..." He slide a sly glance at Kristoph with a feline smile. "...Decisively illegal, I would say."

Kristoph was unshakable, after Apollo's request. He felt oddly calmed by it actually. At the very least, he would no longer have to listen to Apollo's gut-wrenching tirade, though potential blackmail from a devil's advocate seemed to be cold comfort.

"And what of it? I welcome all attempts to have me disbarred." He said coolly, raising a disdainful eyebrow at the man.

The doctor quirked an eyebrow at him in return. "Pshaw, I wouldn't do that. You know me. Under these layers of dirt, I actually have a heart of gold."

"It must have been stolen some time ago then, assuming it's solid."

He flashed a grin. "Well, I wouldn't try to get you disbarred...But that probably would." He jerked a thumb at a machine in the room. It looked like the kind that had been plugged into Apollo, but was switched off.

"Oh? Planning a lawsuit using a machine and it's lines, on the grounds of distressing patients? Try again later, and good luck trying to explain that to the judge." He sneered.

"Oh no, I'm not going to stomp the courthouse yard with a flimsy lawsuit like that. I like money you know, and my idea of spending it is not on lawyers. No no, it's what's IN the machine that will clinch the hat trick. There's a...Mouse in there, let's just say. Pretty silent and cute. Got a good ear too."

Kristoph's face turned stony and he gave him a grim stare. "It's illegal to eavesdrop on peoples' conversations using bugs, bug. I should think even you can understand that."

"Illegal in law, unless you practice it yourself."

"Meaning?" Kristoph narrowed his eyes at the doctor. He merely smiled at them indulgently like he was waiting for a caller for his game show.

"The police planted it here?" Apollo asked, expressionless too.

"Give the boy some hair gel! That's right! Couple of dicks today walked in, and planted the thing in there. I happened to be the one telling them which wire NOT to touch, and how to put the machine back."

"How does a doctor even know that? Sure you guys know how to use it, but do they even teach you the construction of the equipment in medicine? I find that hard to believe." Apollo stated coldly.

White shrugged. "I'm a jack-of-all-trades."

"And master of none, it would seem," Kristoph added. "You realize that if it's sending information to the police headquarters, you could well be in trouble too?"

"No, my dear. It seems that I, like you, have quite a golden card to bail me out of jail too. And anyway, it's not that kind. It records in a disk inside it, and has to be taken out before they can see it."

"And you know this with your admirable knowledge of medicine?"

"Nah. To quote a particular Hippocratic oath : 'I will not be ashamed to say "I know not" '. The dicks told me they're coming back in a couple of days to replace it with a new one, and will need my professional aid."

"And you're telling this to me because..."

"Not to you." The doctor injected, with a scowl for the first time on his face. " I don't give a rat ass what happens to you. All I'm worried about is this : If the case gets dragged onto court the kid--" He pointed forcefully at Apollo. "--will be hauled in for testimony. There's no way he can survive hours of grilling from the court. He'll survive longer with his signature on a death warrant. He'll drop dead within 5 minutes of being stuck up in the witnesses' stand"

"How touching," Kristoph sneered.

"At least SOMEONE around here cares." He sneered back.

That touched a nerve. Deadlock, and a lapse into silence again.

Then Apollo spoke quietly, wheezing under his breath. "They have no case against him anyway."

"I beg your pardon." White said, affronted. "Feel free to disbelieve me, but they can most definitely nab him."

"No they can't." Apollo repeated stubbornly, boring his gaze into the doctor. "Because they can't base a case only a recording. Recordings can be edited."

"Voices then. Those can be analyzed."

"And those can be snipped and made into something else altogether too. One tiny voice recording isn't enough to put anyone in jail."

"And hence, they will have you testify against him."

"I won't testify against him." Apollo stated, matter-of-fact. White stared at him. Kristoph stared at him too. He couldn't believe what he just heard.

"Ever." He snapped at the doctor, as though he harboured illusions of making him testify. "And no such thing will be necessary. Kristoph, take the thing out. And you--" He jabbed a finger at the doctor. "--You will help us."

" And if I don't? Death to the dissenters?"

Apollo merely looked at him and snapped. "Stop being stubborn. You told us about it for one reason, and if you're going to send someone east, send them all the way there. Obviously I can't help, so hop to it."

"Aye-aye, matey," the doctor saluted, grinning.

They locked the door, and for the next half an hour, got to work at removing the bug inside the machine. Dr. White kindly hopped down to the janitor's room to retrieve a bunch of screwdrivers, and they made short work of it. Kristoph left twice to check on something outside, but in the end they managed to retrieve a small rectangular object from the insides of the equipment. It was grey, two inches wide, and barely bigger than a cellphone – but it was recording everything they said.

"Alright...There we go..." White held up the bug like it was a precious newborn and lifted it with two fingers up into the light to examine it. "So, who gets to destroy this thing?"

"If you think I'll let you walk out of here holding that thing, you're crazy." Kristoph stated simply, and begin to methodically recombine the machine.

"Aye, I knew today would be a bad day. Knew it from the chill in my bones." The doctor pulled a sad face and handed it to him when he was done. Then he left, poking his head in one last time before he left. "And yes, don't take too long now. Wouldn't want your 'stray' to wander around here lost." He winked at him and retrieved his head before Kristoph could throw something at it.

The door slammed shut with a note of finality.

Left alone again, with silence as their poor mistress.

They suffered in silence like that for a long while, before Apollo gave up and lied down.

"I'm tired. Please leave," he ordered. When Kristoph did not respond, he switched off the light, and the only thing they could hear was the sound of their own breathing.

After a long while, Kristoph finally spoke. "You asked me earlier : So what if I'm sorry, didn't you?"

Apollo didn't answer, but Kristoph could tell he wasn't asleep. His ears were pricked up and he was as alert as he was. "And all I have to say is this : My 'sorry' can't undo anything. If you had died yesterday, or today, it won't do anything. It won't bring you back to life, and it probably won't exist anyway, because there's no one I would say it to."

Soft breathing.

"...But it's all I have to offer. I'm sorry, Apollo."

Apollo didn't answer for a long time. A clock ticked noisily in the darkness, and Kristoph counted at least half an hour before he left, thinking that Apollo either refused to speak to him, or that he had fallen asleep.

Apollo had lain awake all night thinking about that statement and massaging his wrist, where his bracelet usually was.

* * *

Kristoph walked out of the hospitals with a coat borrowed from Doctor White - and immediately ran back in. The man had saw him shivering just at the sight of the heavy snow piled outside. There had been a freak storm and now the snow lied almost a feet above the ground. Trying to ride out of the place was impossible, and would do as much good as walking home. Kristoph had returned to the lobby to witness Klavier throwing a tantrum, calling his manager and yelling at someone on the line.

"...It's cold. I'm cold. I'm miserable. Get me out of here. Fast."

"Klavier, stop acting like a spoiled brat." Kristoph chided, falling into a row of plastic chairs. He was tired, and had a long day ahead of him.

"I'm not acting like a spoiled brat. I'm acting like a spoiled brat trapped inside a hospital, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a storm, with the heater broken."

Kristoph merely grunted, wrapping the coat around him and curling into sleep on the uncomfortable chair. Tired of his own antics a little while later, Klavier joined his brother on the row of chairs, trying to get Kristoph to share his coat and squabbling like children over it. Twice they were woken up by Klavier's screaming fan-nurse.

And so the brothers, one a rock-god, one a lawyer of renown fell asleep in the hospital lobby with their heads knocked against each other and Klavier snoring loudly while the snow outside drifted down like a blanket of white.

* * *

"What's that you're typing out?" Klavier asked from over Kristoph shoulder. He minimized it and glared at his brother, who was chewing a piece of toast with a cup of his morning, watered down beer.

"It's none of your business," he snapped. "Peeping is rude, Klavier."

"Bitchy, bitchy." Klavier mumbled, snagging Kristoph hot tea off the table and drinking it in one gulp. "Ah, excellent. What blend?"  
"Royal." He shutdown his laptop and started stashing his papers into a briefcase. "Now, I'm afraid I have to abandon you for the comfort of my office, where I can work without people looking over my shoulder while I do it."

"Why so early? It's only..." He slide a glance at Kristoph's watch. "...Eight. It's always nice to be fashionably late."

"Says the guy who flies halfway down the states because his brother slept in."

Klavier chuckled. "Well, it's you. You never sleep in. I --" He yawned to emphasis his point. "-On the other hand, need my beauty sleep. So sorry, but I can't play with you today, brother dearest."

He tapped Kristoph's head playfully and sauntered off to the guest bedroom, since Kristoph refused to let him use Apollo's last night.

He organized his files and folders and walked out of the apartment and down the building quickly, refusing to let himself think too much. In the car, he turned on the music so loud that it drowned out any possible thoughts and even made a neighbouring car honked at him, telling him to tone the funeral down. His office, neatly tucked in a fashionable corner of a fashionable street filled with lawyers hoping for the fashionable demise of their surrounding people so that they could sue someone, turned out to be empty, as he had expected. His secretary wasn't there yet, and she likely would be late, thinking that Mr. Gavin won't be in today either.

Fine with him, he needed to think.

He had drove down to the institute shortly after the snow let out, as soon as he ditched Klavier back at his apartment. The Fish was much upset, more put-upon, and severely depressed while handing him the necessary papers to return Apollo to the litter box. Only the mention that he would try his best to put Apollo in another institute got her hopes up. It wasn't a promise made idly either – he genuinely wanted to move Apollo to a better place – a second visit, one in the middle of the night at that, left him feeling revolted at the place. It felt like a squatter's yard to him – on the way out he had littered the hopelessly dismantled and crushed pieces of the police's bug into the city sewers.

His task now was to type out a legal document – binding Apollo to the agreement, and settling out the wrinkles in the adoption. He didn't want his secretary to type it out, for obvious reasons – but he found he had great difficulty concentrating long enough to type three sentences at one go. His mind trailed after his fingers, and he ended up typing long strings of drivel into the computer.

Once he was done, Apollo would no longer belong to him – neither as a son, nor as a friend of any sort. He would be on the fast track back to an orphanage, and Kristoph would return to his unhindered life of becoming a super-attorney. And his wish comes true. This was what he had hoped for when he had first adopted Apollo – to be rid of him – and now in a twisted roundabout way, rather like those sham of a trial of Wright's, he would end up without him, and regain his hours of silence, sitting in the middle of a swirl of a social life amongst the elite of the law, and his classical music.

Back to the walls grinning at him, as though gloating at the very fact that they were the only who really knew him.

Back to hours spent in silence, plotting someone's demise - someone who had gotten themselves accidentally dragged into his bottomless whirlpool.

His nails bite into the paper he was holding, punching neat holes into it. That's enough, he stated coldly to himself. Apollo made his decision, and a decision has been made.

He typed the document out.

When he was done, he left the office, not even bothering to leave his dumbfounded and stuttering secretary instruction. Just tell any client who walks in to call me later, he instructed crisply, then walked out with only a binder-full of papers. Good help, he thought grimly, was like a pink thundercloud. Maybe he can hire Apollo to be a paralegal – god knows the kid knows enough of it, the law – if he was willing. His step was methodical as he stomped down the stairs leading to his office. He was starting to come to terms with the fact that he would no longer go home to a barrage of 'Objections!' thrown around the house with the 'chord of steels' Apollo had been so proud of. When questioned as to the origin of the word, Apollo had sheepishly admitted it was from a Steel Samurai-Jammin' Ninja crossover special in which they combined to use a special technique by that name that blows everyone away.

Kristoph chuckled softly at the thought and punched twenty-two on the elevator panel. The elevator whizzed silently up to Apollo's floor, and he stepped off it.

Apollo was sleeping when he entered the room, and he took the chance to observe him. It would probably be the last time he saw him, if Apollo got his way. He looked like a child, Kristoph thought – WAS a child, he reminded himself – and looked as vulnerable as one._ Had he really tried to poison him?_ He wondered. No excuses for that, he thought grimly. Apollo opened his eyes.

"Mmm..." Apollo mumbled sleepily, climbing up from the bed. He looked much better today, and Kristoph told him.

"Thanks, I feel better too." He looked up at Kristoph still blurry-eyed. Then his gaze switched to his briefcase. "Did you bring the papers?"

"Yes."

"You work fast."

"Thanks."

Two quick clicks, and the briefcase popped open. They reminded Kristoph of the sound a gun made when you ready it for firing.

"Here you go," he said, handing Apollo a thick bunch of papers, including those from the orphanage. "Since you're almost eighteen, you're only going to stay at the orphanage for a few more months before you're allowed to leave."

"Huh..." Apollo chuckled. "I feel like Harry Potter, going home for the summer. What's this?" He pointed at the name of another institute.

"Well...I figured since you don't like that institute of yours, you can go to another one. One with nicer people."

"Your people, you mean?"

"...I only received your announcement yesterday, Apollo. I don't have a hobby of scouring orphanages well enough to merit a lackey there."

Apollo just shrugged. "Tell me where to sign," he said.

"This one," Kristoph handed him the document he typed out.

"What is it?"

"It's a document dissolving all legal binding responsibilities between us."

"I see," Apollo scanned the document, reading through all the clauses and fine print in case Kristoph was out to catch him. There were none, but Kristoph was proud that he did anyway – he had taught him well.

"Pen please."

Moment of truth. He handed Apollo the pen, and Apollo signed it, and started writing a statement acknowledging it. Kristoph watched from beside the bed quietly as he listened to the almost melodious scrapping of the pen against the paper. Apollo's writing was neat – though not meticulous, and strong and crisp. Kind of like him, Kristoph thought.

Apollo finished writing it and set the pen down. Kristoph reached out a hand to take them, suddenly just wanting to get it over with and go home, but the boy slapped his hand away.

"Before that, where's my bracelet?"

"Bracelet...?"

"Yeah, the thing I always wear? It's not here," Apollo raised his left hand, wriggling it for him to see. "I want it back."

Kristoph nodded and headed off to find a nurse to retrieve the things they took and kept for Apollo and handed it back to him. He immediately slipped it into place.

"Why? Does that bracelet mean something?" Kristoph asked, unable to resist the habit of being sneaky.

"No," Apollo stated simply, giving him a look that told him he knew exactly what he was trying to do. "But it makes me feel safer."

"Now then..." He organized the papers, then held them for a moment. He looked up at Kristoph. "Tell me, what you said yesterday. Did you really mean it?"

"...Yes." He answered simply.

"Okay. Say it again," Apollo said, tilting his head upwards in challenge.

Kristoph looked at the boy, who was staring holes into his head, as though trying to see right through it and smiled gently.

"I'm sorry, Apollo."

There would be nothing for him to see if he could anyway – he genuinely meant it.

Apollo stared at him, for what felt like the longest time in the world.

Then Kristoph opened his mouth to speak--

A grotesque sound of paper atoms being torn apart echoed in the room and Kristoph stared, stunned, at what Apollo was doing. He was in the process of dismembering the paper into tiny bits of almost exact sizes.

When he was done, he let the paper fall from his fingers onto the sheets and gave a dramatic, exaggerated sigh. "Oops, look what I did, Kristoph. You really should say that more often, look what I reduce the paper to in my shock."

Kristoph grinned at him. "I can buy you a new one if you want."

"Just get me a guava juice." Apollo said, grinning back.

He didn't make a single poisonous remark all afternoon, and Kristoph knew he was forgiven.

* * *

And...Plot holes left unanswered. _*Bang bang, I hit the ground*_ What do you guys think of White? I am thinking of making him a real OC (as in, flesh him out some more, not in this story but in others as well? Well either way, yes or no - what do you think of his personality?


	11. XI : The carnivorous vegetarian

Note : Woopsie, sorry for the late update. Was celebrating new year's with my friends. Well, now that I'm back, let's see what Kris have up his sleeve eh, and his resolution to 'stop killing'. (Yeah right, as if he can ever do that, Kristoph joo evil prinny!: No reincarnation for you! D:)

* * *

_I go both ways, my dear._

_***_

_XI : The carnivorous vegetarian._

Patrick o'Flynn had been Patrick o'Flynn for so long that no one can really remember what he used to be called any more. Everyone called him Pat, and he answered by the name Pat and after some time, even the name Patrick o'Flynn itself was forgotten, and he was 'just Pat', the hobo down the street that's got a bit worse than everyone else here. Everyone else here is homeless – they either squandered their time on booze, wandering from bus stop to subway station or stayed in one of the homeless shelters in the city, trying to carve out a more respectable sort of life for themselves. He got it worse than some, 'cuz he was an artist – but everyone knows what that really means – it means he ain't got skill, and he ain't got a cert. He sells a little crack, takes a lot more, and lives in a dump. They called him an artist.

"And thaaaaaaaaaaaaat, was how they found me, stupendous, really." Pat announced from atop a stool in a seedy bar. There was nothing UN-seedy about the bar – from the very dirt on it's walls to the very dirt on it's customers, everything here proclaimed seedy loudly. Even the stool on which he stood on seemed seedy and conspiratorial, as if it was at that very moment conspiring to let down it's inhabitant.

"And then!?" The crowd gathered around the whiskered-faced man waited in bated breath. They had heard the same story for three whole days now – but some things never got tiring.

"And then I told them 'You got it, joss. You got yourself a maaaaaaan to interview!"

The crowd cheered wildly and Pat made a gesture at the barman, who was stacking glasses on a cabinet. "Give everyone a round, it's on me!" he yelled. The barman nodded and started pouring and passing out glasses of cheap beer to the eager hands around the saloon table. Pat didn't exactly have the money to foot the bill, but that was okay. Right now, Pat's the golden boy, and no one would come after him with a debt sheet.

"When you're on the bright side of the city and milking the city shits for it's cash, try not to forget about us, eh?" Someone jostled him, and he laughed.

"Naw, I don't care how much I'm earning, I ain't ever leaving this place here," Pat raised his beer, cheering loudly. "'Cuz this the best place yet, ain't that right?"

Loud cheers all over. He emptied his drink, and another was passed into his hand immediately. It was so nice to be the center of attention for once.

"How did they find out about you anyway?" A man asked. Only he rolled the 'you', so it came out as 'jooooooooo'.

"Well, I dunno. But apparently I sold a painting to this guy right out of that stuck up school for rich kids down the city there, and he got it priced. Then all of sudden, hoo boy, the newspapers get a wink of it and comes after me like a piranha at fresh meat."

"Yeah, calls him the da Vinci of the 21st century, they do," grunted a disgruntled man on a stool with one leg broken. "I ain't seeing the charm myself, if you ask me. Looks like the diaper of my baby brother's son."

"Hah, you're just jealous!" Someone elbowed the disgruntled man, and he elbowed him back. The rest engaged Pat in conversation.

"...So Pat, ya think they got a job down in the pansy parts..."

"...Ain't that right, first thing ya gotta do..."

"...Take my advise pal, them city folks will eat you up the moment you..."

"...No, you gotta..."

The advise, the requests, and the general adoration itself was so overwhelming that Pat, in his stoned state, could hardly do more than wave his glass around and mumbled something in answer. Suddenly everyone wanted a piece of good ol' Pat. Whereas earlier everyone was just happy to pass him off as just another wallflower in the bar, now everyone wanted to talk to him – He was their dream come true – a proof that there WAS a better life to be had, that there WAS a chance that they could climb out of this little shit hole and make a better life for themselves. Drive them big cars. Drink the fine whisky. He was the newest icon in town, a living representation of all things gone right.

By the time the bar closed down and the people inside started drifting out into the snow-covered streets and back to their lodgings for the day, it was already four, way past the usual closing time of the bar, which was two. Pat staggered out of the bar, stone drunk. A few passing men slapped him on his back and he nearly lost his footing and fell into the snow.

It was such a cold day.

He tried to pull his tattered coat down to covered his glove-less hands, and one of the sleeves tore itself right out, a piece of fabric now dangling forlornly on the edge. _Damn, _he cursed. _When he was out of here, first thing he's gonna do was to buy himself a new coat. One that came with the collar this time. And no more second hand things too!_

He rubbed his hands together, in an effort to give them more friction and more warmth and exhaled a shuddering breath that clouded up the air in front of him. So cold. So very cold. The cold cleared his mind a little, but not enough to enable him to walk properly in the snow, and every time he stumbled he was greeted with cold brick and colder steel. The cold did manage to clear his mind a fraction though, and he immediately wish it hadn't because all he could think of was home – his 'home' of boards stuck together haphazardly – hardly what he would call protection from the cold. He shivered.

Ahead of him, amidst the heavy fog from the cold and from his breath, he could barely just about make out the silhouette of a man, standing down the pavement. He squinted at him, then thinking he must have been one of the men in the bar from earlier, he raised a hand and called out.

"Hey man, what you doing in the middle of the street? Ain't got a place to go?"

There was no answer, and Pat stumbled on, determined to reach the man.

"I know of a place down the street. Man's grumpy, but he would probably take you in for the night." he called out, rubbing his hands together. A piece of scrap iron poked out from the ground and he nearly tripped over it. "Ya okay? Cold got your tongue?"

The man was almost within sight now. He was barely ten feet away, but the fog was so thick that he could barely see ahead of his own nose. He hesitated for a moment. Called it an artist's instinct, but he was getting a bad vibe from the guy. The dude, whoever it was, was standing stone still in the middle of the pavement, during what was one of the coldest times of the year to be outdoors, but he wasn't moving, or rubbing his hands, or trying to get warmed like a normal homeless guy. He wasn't even hunched.

"I say..." He called out, lowering his voice now that he was closer. "You come here often? I don't think I've seen ya before..." He continued walking, hunched, towards the man, his feet propelled by the devil himself. Logic was telling him that this man was strange, perhaps even a violent criminal from other parts, but he was drunk, and logic wasn't what it usually is.

"Hey, you gonna say some..." He stopped. The fog was a little thinner here, and ahead he could see the rundown car of his homeless neighbour. And he could also see the man standing in front of the car too.

"Now, why are you here...? Din't I tell ya to git? I ain't doing it any more," he said. He shifted himself backwards a little, ready to escape if it was necessary. He had no doubt as to who would be the winner if they had a brawl.

The man didn't answer, only walking towards him, closing the space between them.

"Look, I don't want 'ne trouble. You paid the money, I give ya the goods, but I ain't doing it any more, so just - just leave me alone!" He shouted, his voice gaining a slight hysterical note about it.

The man was silent, only continuing his clipped measured strides towards him. Pat turned around and started running down the street, a cardiovascular system vastly unused for a decade suddenly pumping as fast as he could. This man was dangerous, something was telling him. And he needed to get away _NOW._

The snow piled on the streets and it hindered him, making it hard for him to walk, much less run. He nearly fell twice, but climbed back immediately and threw himself forwards – then in a twist of fate, he tripped over the scrap iron poking out of the ground from earlier. He fell face forward into the snow, buried immediately by it. He pushed against the ground, trying to lift himself up – but it was hard. The ground wasn't cooperating, the snow was slippery and made his fingers shiver uncontrollably. He shuddered, and gave up on trying to stand back up. Instead he tried to crawl forward with his elbows, hoping that the snow would hinder the man like it did him.

The clipped footsteps got closer, and Pat could hear the soft 'swooshing' sound when the snow gave way to his feet in the silence of the dead street. He crawled faster, and faster, and struggled once again to get up. He managed to climb up, and started a sprint, looking back to see the distance between himself and the man, but a strong hand pushed him from behind, and he fell down into the snow again. He stared at the ground, stunned, at the shadow of the being looming over him.

And that was the last thing he saw.

* * *

The dawn was almost breaking.

The sky was dusky, with flakes of gray-white peeling off, slowly, scale by scale being replaced by a lighter azure colour that would mark the rest of the day, like a snake that was peeling it's skin backwards, to reveal another layer underneath it. The pavement likewise bask in the kindly glow of the morning light, and it made everything look at once gray and sad, like a early-morning funeral. Against this backdrop, a jarring contrast presented itself in the form of long yellow tapes pulled between streets with the words "DO NOT CROSS" stamped onto it with bold, no-nonsense characters that reflected the mood of everyone past the line.

A group of uniformed police and a few detectives scattered about the area. None was in a good mood : The late shifts ones were looking forward to going home and shower and sleep and forget the drudgery of the day; the next shift was irritated at the case this early in the morning. It's just a hobo, someone spat, kicking the thinning snow on the ground until it turned into slush. So who cares if a hobo is dead?

The answer : No one. Much less the police. Patrick o'Flynn was found secluded in his neighbouring hobo's little run-down car with the engine and the heater turned on. The pipe had been barricaded by a pile of scrap metal, and the carbon monoxide from the ancient vehicle had sent the hobo, to quote, knocking on heaven's door. He had been wrapped up in layers after layers of tattered coat, and if his assailant had left him in the cold – he would have died from the frost for sure, but no, here he was, stuck in the car and dead. His assailant was either very thorough, or non-existant.

At this stage, the detective in charge of the case told the journalist, they don't know yet. On one hand, it's very easy to dismiss this as an accident. Maybe the car was parked there, and the driver hadn't noticed the rubbish blocking the back of the pipe, and since it was snowing heavily last night, Patrick o'Flynn probably couldn't see it either, instead merely climbing into the car and starting the engine with the key stuck in the igniter. But that leaves a question? Why was the back of his head caked with dry blood and with shrapnels of something sharp and iron embedded in it? It was a puzzle, the police assured the journalist, and the killer – if there was one, won't get away with it. Police honour. The lone journalist - the only one from a crumbling paper who had bothered turning up to report the death of just another hobo nodded sullenly, scribbling into his notepad. Then he pulled up his scarf and thanked the police and left the area with a red nose.

Half an hour later, the detective in charge announced that they had spent enough time on the scene to make it look good on paperwork, packed up the body, packed up the scrap iron and shrapnels as evidence, and headed home. A small column on a small newspaper reported the death of an unnamed hobo, and that was the end of Patrick o'Flynn, known as Pat, and future daVinci.

* * *

"I got it!"

Vongole perked up her ears and jumped up, charging towards Apollo, who had just entered the room. Apollo bent down, holding a sheet of paper and rubbed her snout, then bounded together into the kitchen. Kristoph was leaning against the counter with a cup of tea and a newspaper.

He raised an eyebrow. "If you tell me it's a carton of pre-ordered guava juice, I can honestly tell you right now Apollo, that I don't care."

Apollo was beaming from ear to ear, and did not rise to the snub. "No, it's not guava juice," he said, letting out a hysterical little giggle. "Just wait till you hear it, you'll DIE."

Kristoph kept his eyes on the paper, perusing the finance section and checking his investment. "Mmm?" He mumbled distractedly. "What is it then?"

"I got..." He took a deep breath. "...ACCEPTED!! Woo! I got accepted into Fordham!" He squealed at the top of his lungs then placed the paper on the table and a weight on it, taking Vongole by her paws and raising her up for a dance.

"I got accepted~ Accepted~ Accepted~ " He sang out in a sing-song voice, prancing around the kitchen with Vongole. Vongole didn't take kindly to the strange behaviour, and snapped her jaws at his hands. Kristoph held up the paper and blinked at it. Sure enough, the school's crest was printed onto it, along with a lengthy invitation so traditional to letters from schools, but Kristoph ignored all the words – something he would never do usually – and his eyes, no matter how he strained them to read on, always returned to the word ACCEPTED. Capitalized.

He stared at it stunned, and Apollo dashed up to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him madly up and down. "I got accepted!!!! I seriously seriously got accepted! Into FORDHAM!!" He shook him some more, then retreated back to do a dance around Vongole. Vongole barked at him. Kristoph still wore the stunned expression on his face, leaning against the counter, news and tea forgotten. The letter fluttered softly out of his dazed hands and onto the floor and a grin began to spread across his face.

"This is EXCELLENT news, Apollo," he finally managed to get out. "Very very excellent news. When did you apply for it?"

Apollo stopped dancing long enough to grin at him. "I applied right after I got the results. I figured the faster I go for it, the lesser they will have to review when they're reviewing mine. And dividing the time allocated to your average staff officer by a factor n...And assuming_ n_ is the number of applicants they will have...Oh snap!" He couldn't keep his jubilant voice down. "Forget the maths, my brain's not working!"

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" Apollo shouted, raising his arms and waving them around. Someone hit the floor beneath them with something hard, and they got the message. Apollo bite his lip sheepishly.

"Is this what you wanted me to sign the other day?" Kristoph asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

Apollo nodded. "Yeah, they allocated a space for recommendation from established firms or lawyers, so I figured I'll just fill in your name and make you sign it." He smirked. "I highly doubt they're going to refuse the star attorney of the city right now, and that goes for his recommendation too."

"Diabolical, you," Kristoph commented dryly. "I wonder who you get it from." He mocked sigh.

"I wonder too, maybe from mother?" Apollo suggested. "I say...Come to think of it, I DO need a mother. When am I getting one, O father dearest?"

"Oh can it, minx. But this is excellent news indeed – and we must celebrate," he announced, with a hand flourish.

"Ooh, good idea!" Apollo exclaimed. "Say, isn't there a new vegetarian restaurant opening right down the street? I heard the salad's amazing."

"We're not having peas and cabbages to celebrate this monumental occasion, Apollo," he admonished. "Cuisine like that hardly does the day justice, if you'll excuse the unintentional pun. No, we must have something more...exquisite."

"Oh no," Apollo groaned. "Please don't tell me we're going German again. Why are we always going German? And why aren't there any other restaurants doing German cuisine? The one you always go to sucks."

"How many Germans do you know who own a restaurant, Apollo?"

"Well...I know a couple from school, but they're all Something Serious."

"Precisely. Which is why, we're doing Italian today."

"Ugh. Pasta. I hate pasta. Why do you have to put down my mood like that?" Apollo grumbled, picking up the paper from the floor and tucking it neatly into his Folder for All Things Important, complete with a sticker in front of it to announce the fact in case he forgot.

"Pasta's good for you, it'll fatten you up."

"Great, so that you can boil me up and eat me alive?"

"Naturally," Kristoph commented with put-on airs. "But I say, why are there suddenly so many more papers in that folder of yours?"

Apollo blushed, stammering. "I-It's nothing. I just stashed some scrap paper into it, that's all."

"What is it, Apollo?" Kristoph wagged a finger at him. "And don't lie, you're rubbish at it."

Apollo stuffed the folder behind him and inched backwards. Kristoph leaned forward with a menacing smile, and Apollo gulped and Kristoph....

...reached behind him and plucked it right out of his hands.

"Hey, jerk!" Apollo yelled, clawing at his hands.

"Nuh-uh, finders' keepers, I believe is the phrase," he turned around, and Apollo boxed his back instead. "Now let's see here..." He started flipping through the neatly categorized and clipped sections, and spotted similar letters from the one he showed him earlier, proclaiming their acceptance of his application.

"One...Two...Three...Four..." Kristoph counted aloud in growing incredulity. "Apollo, how many colleges did you apply for?"

Apollo blushed so hard his whole face was red. "I—Just give it back please."

"And there's even...Community college!? Apollo, what's the meaning of this?" Apollo's face, if possible, turned even redder.

"I w-was just worried that I wouldn't be accepted into any!" He said defensively. "It never hurts to be safe," he added in a quiet mumble.

"Indeed, but now that you have these many, I feel it's a pity just putting them in a file...." Kristoph pulled out a letter. "No, we must do something more productive with it."

Apollo stared at his room, half an hour later in horror. His letter of acceptances were grinning evilly at him from their positions all over the wall.

* * *

That night Kristoph was busy, since he had arranged for Klavier's flight to be on that day and had been obliged to send him off on his way. Klavier was disgruntled and not being given a chance to meet Apollo face to face even though the boy had been discharged for almost a whole week already, and was very vocal about it.

"I swear, just come out of the closet already Kristoph – he's actually your little boyfriend isn't he?"

Kristoph barked at him to shape up his luggage into a presentable bundle. "No he isn't, Daryan," he snapped, pointing at Klavier. "Please make sure you wheel him into the airport and don't allow him to run free around here."

"Roger, sir," Daryan said, giving him an insolent grin. He swaggered towards Klavier and wrapped an arm around him. "Come along now, love, you gotta walk him a plank."

"Fine," Klavier muttered, waving goodbye to his brother and stepping into the shrieking queue. "Goodbye brother, but don't be too busy! Send me a postcard now and then to keep me updated about your _liebeling!_"

Kristoph grounded his teeth and send him on his way, watching his brother's figure retreat into a throng of adoring fans that gladly parted ways for him to board the plane easier. He shook his head fondly – this was how his brother was always like, even back when he was in diapers he was completely nonsensical and strange. He retreated out of the crowd in the airport for some fresh air, walking quickly towards the car park placed at the end of the road leading away from the main airport. Above him, a plane or two wheezed off, fresh from their take off, and the sound was deafening, and it took him a moment to realize that his phone was ringing.

_Thirteen years hard time of loooooooooooooove -- _ Kristoph snatched up his phone in a hurry, not wanting to hear more of his brother's atrocious voice. He took a look at the ID – "Kazaf Devereux" flashed at him.

"Kristoph Gavin speaking." He clipped up.

_"Helloooo, uncle Gavin,"_ a voice chirped, revoltingly...Cheerful. If that was possible. _"How are you doing?"_

"Kazaf." He acknowledged. "I'm fine. You, and your sister?"

_"Sis is baking cookies. You want some?"_ he squealed the question into the phone.

"No, Kazaf, unless you have, since the last time I met you, have managed to twist space-time under your thumb too."

Kazaf giggled again, but it was a decidedly more annoying one this time. _"Aww, that's too bad. I'll have them allll to myself then."_

Kristoph reached his car and unlocked the door, sliding into it smoothly. It was a lot more silent in the car, and he could hear the boy properly on the phone.

"Cut the act out, Kazaf. We all know what you really are like. And besides, aren't you already 13?"

_"I may be thirteen, but at least I'm younger than you, old man."_ He snapped irritably. _"And for that matter,why can't I act like a kid? God knows you adults act like one all the time."_

"Touché," Kristoph commented. "They do act like children."

_"YOU all act like children."_

"Excuse me?" He huffed, affronted.

_"Awww, what's wrong, eety beety viper? Don't you like children? Children are cuteeeee,"_ He drawled out the word, sounding for all the world like an annoying 6-year-old.

"Cut. It. Out, Kazaf. You're making me sick." Even as he finished the sentence, bile rose in his throat.

_"Okay."_ the voice came, all business now._ "Now, Gavin....Since you asked for business, I'll give you business. Let's not dance in the moonlight around the bush now shall we? I have a little tidbit of information for you."_

_"Want it?_" He asked?

Kristoph hesitated for a second. "How much?"

_"Hmm..."_ The boy tapped something a few times. _"I was thinking of somewhere among the vicinity of a million."_

Kristoph sucked in a violent breath of air through his teeth, letting out a hiss. "What information do you have that could possibly cost that much?"

_"Uh, a lot?"_ The kid chuckled, making a 360 from how he was just now. And yes, 360 spins a person right back to their original spot. Kazaf was like that : both was a facade to him. Nothing was real. _"I know plenty. You could say I'm...Privileged since the last time you're in L.A. Funny how that happens huh? We've climbed so far..."_

"Information." he snapped, reminding the child.

_"Oops, sorry. I'm given to rambling these days. Hah! Must be getting old." _The kid paused. When Kristoph neither followed on in question or in speech, he continued. _"So, do you want it?"_

"What does it have to do with?"

_"Huh...I would say...Phoenix Wright."_

His heart skipped a beat. "Phoenix Wright. That disgraced lawyer."

_"No, Gavin. The lawyer you disgraced." _Funny how you twist a couple of words and the sentence becomes completely different.

"I see. What about him?" The incident at the hospital had taught him not to run his mouth, even at the safest places. Especially since he wasn't sure how much the boy, heir to the chief police's job in L.A, knew.

The boy clicked his tongue at him._ "If I told you that, I wouldn't be making a few bucks from you now, would I?"_

"A million?"

_"A million. Take it or leave it."_

Kristoph mouth hardened into a smooth line of determination. The people who knew his secrets had been 0 a couple of weeks ago. It had suddenly leaped to one, and now, possibly two. One of these days he would have to do something about that boy. "Alright."

_"Wow!"_ The boy whistled. _"You must be making big bucks, if you agree that fast! I was actually expecting you to haggle it down to a couple of thousand."_

_"I must have touched a nerve, haven't I?"_ He added slyly.

"Save it, bastard."

_"Tsk tsk, swearing at kids now, are we, Gavin? How far you've fallen from your gentlemanly rung on the hierarchy. Pretty soon you'll rank somewhere down there with the swindlers and rapists too."_

"I said, save it," Kristoph snarled. Viciously.

_"Alright, alright. Jeez. Just get the money into my account. Oh and while you're at it, wanna buy a sense of humour too? I can sell you one, with a 20% discount rate too."_

"I wouldn't want any humour you're selling me. I find it ridiculous."

_"Hmph. It's better than –HEY!!_" The boy stopped talking, and a scuffling sound was heard from the opposite end of the line.

"Hello?" Kristoph called, his hand halfway on the igniter to start the car.

A moment later, a feminine lilting voice assumed the receiver. "_I'm so sorry about that Kristoph."_

In the background he could hear Kazaf shouting at the top of his lungs.

_"He's just such a handful – I don't what I would do with him--"_

_"--How about starting by giving me back my phone!? I was going to pocket my million right there!"_

_"Shut the hell up, Kazaf, or you're not getting your milk and cookies." _The voice hissed, with one hand over the phone to muffle it – but Kristoph could still hear it._ "I'm so sorry, really. He's gotten this idea into his head lately that the best way to make money and NOT BE FOUND OUT_ (she emphasized this loudly for the boy to hear.)_ is by selling state secrets."_

"Ah, I see." Kristoph started the engine and let it roar.

_"You weren't honestly trying to get it from him were you?"_ She asked, suspicious.

"Of course not. And may I say it's enchanting to hear from you again, Elizabeth?"

A sigh. _"Still with the silver tongue I see, Kristoph. At any rate, Kazaf called you because I told him to."_

Kristoph frowned. What game were they playing at? "Why?"

_"To tell you what he wiggled out of a detective today."_

"And that would be?" He snapped, losing patience. The Ford rolled down the street and the into the highway. Almost immediately the miles begin to roll by. "Stop meandering on the same point."

_"Phoenix Wright is digging around about you, Kristoph."_

Kristoph stopped. He simply stopped. There was no other word to describe his motion, his demeanour, other than to say he simply...Stopped. Not moving. Stagnant. He allowed his hand to fall limply from the steering wheel and the car rolled on on it's own with one foot pressed down on the oil– his mind was so stunned that he wasn't even aware of how dangerous that was - letting a car move on it's own. He didn't even had enough presence of mind to pulled up beside the road.

"Does he – What does he want?" He asked, then realizing how ridiculously unanswerable that was, he changed questions. "What has he been asking about?"

_Elizabeth hesitated for a moment before saying, "He's been digging into a case file by the name of Gramarye, from what we've heard. And he's been asking subtle questions about that...Incident too."_

A car from the opposite direction sprinted on the highway towards him – his car inched over to the other lane and their two cars almost collided. The other driver swerved off the road in time and into the mud beside it – and Kristoph jammed his foot hard onto the brake. The brake screamed – an ugly sound of rubber at high speed forced to stop and he slammed forward against the wheel.

_"Kristoph – are you okay!? What the hell was that!?"_

"I—I'm fine," He grated out, straightening himself. His ribs hurt, and his cheek hurt where it had slammed into the wheel too – damned airbags hadn't work.

Kristoph racked his hair, letting out a shuddering breath, and Elizabeth voiced her concern._"You'll be okay, won't you, Kristoph? I'm worried about you. Kazaf doesn't tell me everything, but it doesn't take a genius to figure it out that you're in over your head."_

"I'll be fine, Elizabeth," he muttered, all charm again. "You don't have to worry about me."

_"You're a good guy, Kristoph, whatever you've decided to be. And I don't want to see you dragged down in the halls of shame."_

Kristoph nodded noncommittally, and lapsed into silence.

Thoughts started racing up and down his mind, like panicked bugs in a jar. Phoenix was suspicious, or if he wasn't, at least he wanted to find out. He obviously can't go around solving this by stabbing him one in the ribs – for one thing, it would be too obvious once it was unearthed that he had been looking for Kristoph-ish information. For another, he was getting tired of all these. You kill a person, and you have ten persons left behind to clean up. You kill all ten and you leave a hundred. It was a cat and mouse game that no one ever won, much less himself. He was happy now – and he wanted to keep it that way. Phoenix however, was getting in his way. He would have to keep an eye on him in case he found out too much.

He came to a decision.

"Elizabeth?" He called into the phone. She had been silent for as long as he had been. "Can I speak to Kazaf please?"

Elizabeth hesitated, then warned him before handing it over to the boy. _"Alright, but no million dollar deals this time. Don't be tricked by him, he's nothing but a kid."_

He heard Kazaf protesting when he was handed the phone.

_"Hi, asshole. How them swingin'?" _He muttered sulkily into the phone.

"I would think that things haven't changed much since five minutes ago, when I spoke to you."

Thwarted, but not beaten. "_Well I hope you're swingin'. From a rope around your neck too, hopefully."_

Point taken.

"I have something I want you to do for me."

_"Well, you just cost me a week's worth of cookies with your slimy conspiratorial talks. I hope whatever you ask of me is well paid-for, Gavin."_ Some scuffling. "_Ow. No pinching! Sorry, I mean UNCLE Gavin."_

Kristoph cracked a smile at that. Sometimes the boy reminded him of Apollo. Multiplied by a factor of annoyance by ten perhaps.

_"So, what is it? Spit it out - You want someone to brush your mane? Or you want a rigged casino to dial up the big bucks? Or maybe Blowing up Phoenix Wright with a wasabi bomb?" _He considered this for a moment_. "I'm good at wasabi bombs."  
_

"None of the above, I'm afraid," he commented, amused.

_"Well, out with it. Some people around here actually have a real job, as opposed to frantically typing documents out and charging people a couple of hundred bucks for every hour you spend in front of the computer."_

He let the slur slide. "I want you to keep an eye out for Zak Gramarye, in case he returns."

_"Sure! I'll love to! Consider it done,"_ he chirped for the benefit of the audience – his sister.

"How much would it cost me?"

_"Free! I'll be happy to do anything for you, uncle Gavin,"_ he announced, but it was with such a venomously sweet tone that Kristoph could guess that was never his intention – merely to deceive his sister into believing he wouldn't be charging him.

"Alright, let's use some bunnies. Pink for a thousand, blue for ten thousand, and red for a hundred, alright?" Kristoph offered it to the boy, knowing he would be absolutely furious at him for not mentioning the 'million' colour.

It thwarted him for about ten seconds, before he chirped again, this time smug._ "I want ten red bunnies, uncle Gavin, and remember to send them over before my birthday."_

"Yes, sir." He smiled.

_"Bye bye now, UNCLE Gavin,"_

Kazaf hung up on him, ending their conversation with a sweet tone. Kristoph threw the phone back into the passenger's seat, but not before removing the record of the conversation.

Alright. That was one problem solved. If Zak Gramarye returned to the shores of America, he would be one of the first to find out – as much as that boy was annoying, Kazaf was efficient. He wouldn't fail something as simple as that. But first, he would have to do a little more research before deciding his next move in their little poisonous game of chess.

He started the Ford and drove home.

* * *

He started dialing.

He had never called so many people so many times in such a short time – but that was what he had been doing, ever since he returned home. Turning over case files and contacting people and pulling strings into getting him what he wanted. What he wanted was simple, and had four syllables : Information. He wanted information on Phoenix, on what he was doing, and not just him either – the other remaining survivors of the incident – Vera and Drew Misham, as well as Spark Brushel, that revolting mint-smelling journalist who had been close to Zak Gramarye.

Asking Kazaf to just hand him everything researched and bounded like paperwork in his firm was impossible – the boy was greedy, not stupid. He wouldn't go around distributing information to someone he had repeatedly dissed as untrustworthy. Paying someone to hack into his computer to find out what he knows was moronic – he would be shot down in 5 milliseconds. That leaves the police – but he was reluctant to either hack their database or to blackmail for more information – both left dust behind. If he paid someone to hack into it, he would have to dispose of that person. If he blackmailed the chief police again, he would risk being traced and implicated for bribery and corruption. That was a no-go either.

He had disposed of the last forger he used out of necessity. He was changed, not insane – and he would be damned if he allowed a potential threat to him rise up the fame ladder – so he had disposed of him. His last one, he swore. He wouldn't kill another person again.

He flung a file in the direction of the door when it proved useless but when he didn't hear the thud of it hitting the ground he looked up. Apollo was standing at the doorway to his dimly lighted office with a cup in his right hand and the other had caught the file in mid-air.

"Hey," He mumbled.

"I'm busy," Kristoph snapped. "And I would take it kindly if you leave and get out of my way."

"I know you are, I can see," Apollo commented, amused. "I just thought I'll hand you something to keep you up – since you look like you're going to pull an all-nighter."

He walked into the room, skipping pass the messy files all over the floors and placed the cup on an empty spot on the table. It was smoking, and brown, and had caffeine. Kristoph downed half of it in a gulp.

Apollo stashed his now empty hands in his pockets and looked around the room. "You're looking for something?"

"Yes."

"Can I help?"

"No."

"Okay," Apollo nodded and walked out, but not before adding, "And don't work too hard – you'll tire yourself out."

Kristoph grunted and went back to work.

He threw files around, he flipped through them at light speed and he was agitated. He stayed agitated the next day, right until their celebratory dinner in the evening, and when he put himself into a silk enshrouded chair he didn't feel very celebratory. He felt downright gloomy, in fact.

"You don't look happy." Apollo commented.

"I am."

"Yeah, if happy is having a scowl creasing your whole face. We don't have to do this you know, if you don't want to."

"Just shut up and order something, Apollo."

Apollo shut up and ordered something, though he looked at him strangely. Kristoph couldn't care less what Apollo was thinking right now. He had cross referenced everything, all the information he had...And all he needed was just one last piece of information. He stared right through the steak all dinner, and Apollo's efforts to make the celebration more cheerful was in vain. All he did was space out and pulled out his phone every 5 minutes to check for messages.

Dinner passed in silence, and it wasn't long before they walked out of the restaurant, his phone in hand, his finger clasping it so tightly that the blood was practically cut off in them.

"Alright. That's enough." Apollo announced, stopping in the middle of the road. Their car was parked on the street across and they had been on the road when he stopped. If it had been busier times he would have been run over immediately by careless drivers – but it was night, and it was an exclusive restaurant, tucked in a dark suburban area where only the elite knew of it. The lights made a vain attempt to pierce the darkness.

"What's wrong with you today?" He demanded. "You're the one who suggested we celebrate in the first place, and now you show up, looking like the walking dead."

"Maybe I am walking Death then, you just didn't realize," Kristoph commented quietly. Apollo hadn't notice his wording.

"That's not funny." Apollo snapped. "So what's it now that's got you so long faced during dinner time?"

Kristoph was quiet. His phone was still displaying the message he had received :

**Trucy Gramarye was adopted by Phoenix Wright. Spark Brushel has been transferred back to the L.A branch. Drew and Vera Misham is still working as an artist. Valant on tour.**

To anyone else, unrelated to the case, it was nothing but drivel and spam – but Kristoph knew better. Every major player in the little game three years earlier was now back in L.A. He had left the city, thinking that that would be the end of it. The attempt to poison both Mishams might have failed, but Brushel had been removed from the place, and he had thought that was enough to scatter the scent of the crime. But now he was starting to guess that maybe he hadn't done such a great job covering as he thought after all.

The journalist was back, the one who had been reportedly close to Zak Gramarye. Trucy, another player in the game, was adopted by Phoenix. The Mishams were still there. Everyone was there – and it was starting to show him what it was necessary for him to do.

"We have to move to L.A, Apollo."

Apollo narrowed his eyes at him and barked. "Why?"

"Because I--"

If he brought Apollo back, and he still wasn't sure what role Apollo played in it, he would be putting all the chess pieces back onto the original board. On the other hand, he would be able to keep an eye out on the journalist and the hermits, not to mention Wright's progress.

"--I'm opening a branch firm there." He invented an excuse. Well, it wasn't ideal, but it was true – he WOULD have to open a branch there if they were moving there.

"You've never mentioned it before," Apollo commented, still suspicious. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't it?"

"Not really, it's a straightforward thing."

"Liar." Apollo challenged.

"Feel free to believe what you wish," he retorted simply. Apollo started wringing his hands, an action Kristoph had noticed that Apollo would do every time he was nervous or suspicious.

"You're lying, there's another reason why we're going there," Apollo called out at last. "What is it?"

"You may ask, but I may not answer."

Apollo stashed his hands into his pocket when he realized the line of Kristoph's sight.

"But you'll tell me someday?"

"Maybe, Apollo," Then he considered where he was going, and why. "Or maybe one day you'll find out yourself."

The boy – he really needed to stop thinking of him as the boy, he was practically a grown man now – flashed a grin at him. A hesitant, unsure grin, but a grin nonetheless.

"Good enough for me."

Kristoph nodded, then started walking towards the car.

"Let's go, we have a lot to pack."

"Wait," Apollo called out.

"What is it now?" He turned around. He was getting tired of all these questions, especially since he can't answer any of them.

"Can we go for burgers now? Because that Italian food was revolting, and you haven't had three bites."

_Come to think of it........_

His stomach rumbled and he blushed, thankful for the scarce light that hid his complexion. Well, that was a question he could answer, at least.

"Yes we can," he said. Apollo punched the air and dashed off down the block, calling for him to follow.

* * *

Apollo was tired out after packing his belongings – Kristoph had pushed for a quick move and they would be heading over in a matter of days back to his old abode. When he was tired – and he was quickly so after the day's excitement, Apollo had slumped forward on the couch and fell asleep immediately beside a snoring Vongole. He had grinned and checked if he was really asleep, then as silently as a ghost, had slipped out of the house like a shadow between cracks and headed to the subway station.

This time of the night, the subway station was quiet and only an occasional train stream passed. Kristoph stopped at the steps to check the schedule, making sure he got the time correct, then checking his watch for the punctuality of the trains. Flawless, as far as today was concerned.

He walked into the underground, his footsteps making loud noises on the tiled floor. The whole place seemed almost...Green at night, like someone was shining a pale drab colour on it with an enormous light, and it made the graffiti on the signs and advertisements looked almost sinister.

"You called, Gavin?"

A man of wide girth stomped down the stairs – as lightly as he could for his size, yet irrationally loud because of it.

"Hello," Kristoph said simply. He wave a hand in front of him and the chief police walked to the indicated spot. The man wiped himself with a handkerchief, sweating bullets just at the simple task.

"Have you told anyone you're coming here?"

"No, not even the wife, just like you're ordered," he licked his lips nervously. "I had to sneak right pass the doorman, not an easy feat, mind you."

Kristoph scanned the man with a disdainful look. Not an easy task indeed.

"So no one knows you're here?"

"Yeah."

Kristoph clammed up, and the man offered a hesitant question.

"So why did you ask me to come here?"

Kristoph was silent. Then he produced a brown envelope with a gloved hand and put it in his face. His eyes immediately developed a hungry gleam.

"Is that what I think it is?" He licked his lips again, no doubt if he could he would have snatched it right out of Kristoph's hands right then, he would. Kristoph retrieved it from his outstretched hands.

"Yes, it's what you think it is."

"The...document?" He hazarded.

"Yes. Stop beating around the bush and come right out to ask a question." He snapped. After being around Apollo so long, he found he no longer had tolerance for beating around the bush. Being around straightforward people was like that - it was contagious.

"Is it the only copy?"

"Yes, this is my last one." That wasn't actually true, but he doesn't have to know that. He still had a copy in his computer, and three in his vault of files.

"What do you want for it?"

"The million I told you to bring," Kristoph stated. The man looked down at the hand that was holding the briefcase as though it wasn't his.

"It's really the last copy?"

"Yes, I don't lie." Much. "Do we have a deal?"

"Yes, yes, of course." The man was so eager for it he handed him the money, right there – without even bothering with a trade. Kristoph smiled wolfishly. Amateurs. He opened the briefcase and started making an exaggerated show of counting the money. He sneaked a peek at his watch. Not long now.

He took such a long time that he was surprised the man didn't complain – but finally, he heard from a distance the sound of the train chugging on the line. It wasn't terribly close, but it was almost there. He counted the money some more, and then finally closed the briefcase with a snap.

The sound was getting louder in the closed tunnel.

He smiled at the man, and he licked his lips again – like a snake, Kristoph thought. A fat, ugly snake.

He could see the lights from the train, illuminating the tunnel from afar.

He handed him the brown envelope, and the man snatched it right out of his hands. His fingers were shaking so much that they were having trouble untying the strings wrapped around the seal.

The trained whistled, and Kristoph could see it now – not slowing at all, because this was the last stop and it would be headed back to the headquarters of the train company. The man finally pried open the envelope and turned around, facing the rails where it had better light to examine the documents.

Closer now. The train was coming..... And now it was reaching, he mentally counted. In 5...4...3...2...

_**NOW!**_

He rushed forward, and with his momentum and the whole of his strength, slammed the fat man down into the grove for the rail. Because he was so heavy, Kristoph nearly couldn't make it but somehow – perhaps there was a devil after all and it smiled favourably on him - he toppled the man and managed to anchor himself onto the ground and not follow the man by changing angles at the last moment. The chief's legs gave way, and fuel by his own weight and it's momentum, fell onto the rails.

The train was coming, barely twenty feet away, and the man opened his mouth to let out a grotesque scream.

Kristoph immediately stepped backwards, just in time - for the automated train ran pass the section of the rail right when he had stepped away, and blood, in all it's red, putrid glory, sprayed out from the bottom of the train. And then the train moved, and carried all the sounds in the station with it.

He grimaced, and pondered the carnage he had planned and caused. There was only a stain where the man had been, and the train, almost empty this time of the night, rolled on unconcerned with the light stains on it's body.

_This really will be the last one,_ he thought. Good riddance to bad garbage anyway. He had been looking into Apollo's incident, long after the detectives had been silent, and he was a threat – a hindrance, and Kristoph hated loose ends._  
_

_And besides, _he turned and smiled a sweet, gentle, smile at the stain._ I never did like him anyway._


	12. XII : Meeting the ashes

Note : Woosh, thank you so much for the support! XD And yes I agree, I seem to make Phoenix sound more like a criminal than the good guy. Maybe I should soup him up a bit to be more of the good guy but heck, his glare is so bad ass in AJ:AA that he could totally pass as a street punk and/or Wocky Kitaki's sidekick. =x Also, getting more and more dialogue-ier. Help.

BloodDawn : Woops, plot hole noted! I don't have time to correct it now, since I'm a little busy with school (I actually am going to be flayed alive tomorrow for not doing homework x.x"). I have just about enough time to clobber together a chapter (since I can't sleep without updating anyway.) and proof-read it. Will correct it when I have time/this weekend, I swear.

Note 2 : I'm sleepy while I'm writing this. So sorry if it's inadequate. I'm obsessed with writing, cut me some slack, kay? +_+

* * *

_And it is said that the Phoenix,_

_shall forevermore rise from it's own ashes;_

_***_

_XII : Meeting the ashes  
_

The stage was opulent to the point of magnificence, and then upon closer inspection, it would be found guilty of magnificence to the point of being gaudy. It was an opera house – and anyone who had trouble understanding that would have to be hard found – as it was decorated from roof to floor with – and yes, there was the word again – opulence. The Mask de Masque Opera House was a new building, built within walking distance of Lordly Tailor for dedicated fans of the masked criminal to throw their earnings at by buying tickets to shows they can't afford, but what it lacked in pedigree and history, it made do with sheer grandness, with the entire place looking like something out of Phantom of the Opera.

Red velvet curtains parted the halls and the stages, and red velvet curtains framed the seats of the theater as well as the private boxes that protruded out of the wall, with golden paint smeared carelessly onto it's carved pillars. The boxes looked like balconies and housed a short row of seats, - about five at a time for the smallest ones – and afforded it's occupant with a view of the entire stage as you lean forward in uncomfortable chairs with detailed bumps in the pattern of roses imprinted into them, surrounding an overly dramatic crystal chandelier hanging precariously in the middle.

Apollo squirmed in one of the seats, trying not to get a better look of the stage. It was hard to do, because no matter how far he leaned back in his seat, somehow he would still catch a glimpse of the performer on stage.

The performer for the night – randomly chosen, but artfully so, depending on who you asked – was a fat woman with a pink slip that covered as much as it exposed. She reminded Apollo of a frog – especially when she sucked in a deep breath to let out a bellow when it came to 'heavy' parts in the song – and he didn't relish the idea of sitting here the whole night listening to her belt out one ballad after another, especially since it was one of his last nights before moving into his (Newly applied, thanks to a stupid unicorn-haired lawyer.) university and it's dormitory.

He sneaked a peek at Kristoph, who was secluded at the back of the box, deep in conversation with YET another strange man. Meetings like those had been getting more often lately - and a short week after their moving to California - had been blown entirely out of proportions. Kristoph spent practically every night since, outside, meeting people (Not forgers, because Apollo stalked him.) and every other night pacing up and down, up and down their brand new living room. When he wasn't being busy stampeding around the house, he would be constantly on the verge of paranoia.

Tap water running?

Someone's trying to flood their house.

Lights on?

Government conspiracy to increase electricity usage by employing auto-lights.

Traffic jams?

Rivaling attorneys employing people to flood the roads with cars so that he would miss his meeting with his important client.

The comments and ramblings had amused Apollo at first, but ever since Kristoph started turning his room upside down searching for possible bugs, he had ceased to be so. Something was bugging Kristoph, and it wasn't the mechanical kind either.

He sighed and suppressed a shudder as the sound system peaked and, unable to cope with the pitch, lambaste the audience with a ear-splitting shriek that left his eardrum ringing like a pounded drum. He looked at Kristoph and the man again, but Kristoph looked like he barely noticed the sound, so deep in conversation with the stranger. The only sign of the sound affecting him at all was his gentle massaging of his lobe and a confused frown, as if he couldn't quite understand why his ears were hurting. Apollo turned back to the stage and examined the other boxes.

Despite the boxes being 'private', it seemed to Apollo that there was in fact, no such thing as privacy here at all. Boxes could peer into ones on the opposite end, and as he enjoyed his peeping advantages, he quickly realized that no one there was actually listening to the woman and her singing. There was a couple in a box a level higher than his that was whispering urgently with scowls on their face, probably bickering over their affair – and a man with a hat and suit right out of the Godfather talking discreetly into his cellphone. No one was even remotely bothered about what was going on on stage. For all they know, it could be an elephant dancing and they wouldn't have noticed - this was a place for secret meetings and rendezvous, it seemed, not enjoyment of art.

Apollo scanned the boxes, bored, and without company to talk to. Kristoph and Man was talking in some language he couldn't understand, but which he guessed to be German, and he had no interest in the performance. Way to begin his term in university. His gaze swept casually across the opposite side of the hall before zoning into one particular box on a higher level than theirs.

The problem with a place that allowed you to be privy to other people's affairs was this – they were privy to yours too – and he recognized immediately the man with a striking blue beanie holding up a cell phone pointed towards their box to snap a few shots. A moment later, the man, noticing Apollo's concentrated scowl, climbed up and pocketed his phone. From afar, he could just about make out the tilt of his head as if he was challenging him.

_And what would you do?_

The words, unspoken, seem somehow louder than the singer's bellow.

The door to the box opened and closed, and the man disappeared through it.

* * *

_A week ago._

_Apollo stuck the poster of his idol, Phoenix Wright onto his new walls and backed up a few steps to admire his handiwork. The man in the poster smiled at him confidently and alas, crookedly – because indeed the poster was crooked, Apollo not having much decorating prowess – at him, and Apollo grinned back, giving the poster one last smack to make sure it stayed there. He then proceeded to unpack another poster – this time one of his favourite band - and examined a spot on his new walls to stick it up against._

"_The poster is crooked." A voiced announced gravely, and Apollo jumped, startled right out of his skin. Kristoph materialized at the doorway to his room in his perfect posture of Arms Crossed and examined the poster critically. _

"_It's crooked," he announced again, in a tone that brook no argument._

_Apollo looked at the poster with a newfound artistic sense and nodded his assent, slipping a few fingers behind it and pulling it into a less offensive position. It was now slanting at 35 degrees._

"_It's better now, isn't it?" He chirped. Kristoph merely looked at the poster and sighed. _

_One of these days, I'll have to get a ruler, Apollo thought sullenly. _

"_Are you done unpacking?" Kristoph ignored his little mental rant and peered at his bags, strewn carelessly over the floor. Half of them grinned at him, emptied of contents and the others were stacked in a corner, still tightly sealed and filled to the brim._

"_Well. Kind of. I didn't bother unpacking the stuff that I'm going to take to the dorm later. I mean, it's just a pain to keep repacking my stuff. Especially since someone keeps moving me around." He shot Kristoph a dirty look._

"_The feng shui of the previous house didn't agree with me deposition," He answered mildly. Looking at the poster of Phoenix Wright, he said. "However did you manage to get your hands on a poster of him? I wasn't aware that he was so popular that they made posters of him."_

_Apollo grinned sheepishly. "There aren't any. I took a photo of him from a magazine and had a shop made it into a poster."_

"_Really Apollo," he complained. "I don't think I've ever encountered anyone more pointless than you."_

_Apollo shrugged and returned to pulling out articles of his wardrobe out of a bag and throwing them carelessly onto the bed, where they would probably stay for most of his week left. Kristoph clicked his tongue and folded his clothes back into shape for him._

_-Ding dong-_

_The doorbell rang and Kristoph perked up, putting down the clothes he was helping him with._

"_I'll get it. Continue unpacking," he ordered.  
_

_He strolled out of Apollo's room into the hallway. Apollo heard the lock being slipped open and the door clicking apart. His fingers paused while assuming the task of folding his vest, expecting Kristoph to greet their visitor._

_Nothing._

_Kristoph wasn't usually that rude – in fact, he was the soul of cordiality. Apollo folded the vest into half and threw it onto the bed to rejoined it's red siblings, walking out of the room and into the hallway to see who their visitor was. _

_To tell the truth, he had been expecting one of Kristoph's legal eagles here to welcome him into the city and butter him up in case he became so successful that his firm swallows theirs. What he hadn't expected to see however, was a man in a gray hoodie and blue beanie with a four-day-old stubble peeking unabashedly from his jaw. The man looked like a hobo – hell, he dressed like one, slippers and all – and he was either a hobo, or dressing up like one for some weird reason. It didn't explain the look on Kristoph's face though – a tight grimace marring a face that had been smiling just a moment ago._

"_You." He said. One word. _

"_Hey there," The man commented, hands firmly stuck inside his hoodie's pockets. "How are you doing, Kristoph?"_

_Kristoph's face was a mask of – well, something. Apollo wasn't sure what. Displeasure was first and foremost evident, but there was a slight touch of something else too. Something he couldn't put his finger on – like fear – but why would Kristoph fear this hobo? Abruptly, Kristoph's expression dissolved, replaced completely with his usual mask of cordiality and it's accompanying smile._

_"I'm fine, thank you." He reached out a stiff hand to shake the hobo's. "And you?"_

"_Peachy, just peachy!" The man laughed, and shrugged, twisting his neck to get a better look at the apartment. _

_Kristoph blinked._

"_...Peachy...?" He muttered in disbelief._

"_Rushed over right away as soon as I heard you're in L.A. Thought I'll come over to say hi and show you around L.A – it's changed so much since you left."_

"_Of course," Kristoph replied.  
_

"_And to welcome you back, of course! Can't say we're not thrilled to have one of the finest attorney around reinstated back in good old Cali." He grinned. "Say, who's that?" This question was directed at Kristoph when he caught sight of Apollo standing in the hallway, goggling at the man._

_Kristoph fidgeted slightly, with just the slightest hint of uneasiness visible. "He's my new assistant," he replied by way of evasion. "Meet Apollo." _

"_Um, hi." Apollo muttered, waving a hesitant hand at the doorway. The man grinned in answer, and he waited for Kristoph to introduce him to the man too, but Kristoph was unwilling, only staring at the hobo as though he couldn't quite believe he was there, or had the audacity to show up. The man, noticing his gaze, raised an eyebrow.  
_

"_I see you haven't change," he commented, smoothly changing the subject. _

_The man smiled as if he knew what Kristoph was up to, a lazy grin, like a cat that had been fed to the point of drowsiness spread across his face. "Wow, you must have a rather low opinion of me back then then. I'm pretty sure I've come a long way off my suit-wearing days."_

"_Not really. What you are inside hasn't changed, and that much is pretty obvious. It's more defining than just mere appearances, I would say."_

"_Strange you would say that," he slid a sideway glance at him. "I remembered you were always hung up on appearances."_

"_Not so much that I can't see what's beneath it," He retorted. _

_An awkward silence after the rebuttal. _

"_But where are my manners? I've just moved in, as you can see – and this place isn't in any shape to receive any guests. Why don't we move elsewhere to talk over a cup of tea?" _

_The hobo raised an eyebrow. "Of course," He nodded at Apollo. "Coming?"_

"_He has to unpack," Kristoph interjected quickly. Apollo opened his mouth to object, but he silenced him with an angry glare. _

"_You have to unpack, Apollo." He repeated, and put a hand on the man's arm. "And we have business to discuss," He snapped, practically yankingthe man's hand out of it's socket in his hurry, and the door slammed shut in Apollo's face, announcing his dismissal clearly ._

_Apollo grimaced and hurried towards the window and pushed apart the blinds to get a good look of the surroundings of their block and sure enough, a moment later, Kristoph stomped out of the building with the man following him behind at a leisurely pace. Apollo lifted a hand to shield himself from the glaring sunlight and squinted at the sight of Kristoph practically shoving the man into his car. Who was he, he wondered, that had Kristoph so eager to have him off their premises? And for the matter, he looked strangely familiar, as if he'd seen him recently..._

_He wished he remember where he saw the man before._

* * *

_Present._

Apollo's fist curled around the seat of the chair next to him, his fingers digging into the hard, uncomfortable fabric of it as he glared at the spot the man had disappeared from as though he could will the man into reappearing with sheer willpower. At the back of his mind, he noticed that the singing woman had gotten off the stage, to dismal applause, and that his ears no longer rang – but most of that mind was concentrated on one thing and one thing alone – trying to place that man.

He was positive that he had saw him before...Just where? And what in the name of earth was he doing here – following, or if you wanted to phrase it more sinisterly – stalking Mr. Gavin? He had no doubts as to whether or not it was just a coincidence he happened to be in the theater – for one thing, the man didn't even looked like he had enough change in his pocket to afford a ticket into the place. For another, he was taking a picture of Kristoph, speaking to the guy – he was sure of it. And he had to find out why.

Once he was gripped by that curious madame called curiousity, he wouldn't lay off until he got to the bottom of it – that was part of the reason Kristoph and he always got into spats and squabbles over every little thing every other day – he was persistent, and this once, he wanted to put that persistence to good use.

_Curiousity killed the cat_, a random thought flew into his head.

_Sure, _he retorted. _But I'm human. _

He raised himself from the seat before that thought finished crossing his mind. Below him, gentle applause broke out as another performer took the stage – this one a man, also with considerable girth around him. He climbed onto the stage, patted the mike and started a soulful mourning song, even as Apollo retreated towards the door to their box.

"Kristoph, I'm going to the toilet," he informed the man. Kristoph merely waved him off distractedly and continued jabbering with the stranger in German. His phone rang, and he pointed it out to him. "Your phone's ringing."

Another distracted wave, this time more agitated, and Apollo took his cue, leaving the little cramped place. Once he was out and into the hallway, the sound cut down considerably – the man's voice being reduce to a sonorous sort of muffled echo, if such a thing was possible to be said of an echo. He didn't waste time observing the place vibrate however, he dashed down the hallway to the west side of the theater hall – towards the direction the man had took off from. He sped down the circular shaped hallway and nearly tripped on a bunched up spot on the carpet in his hurry. He cussed. Stupid fugly carpet. It didn't help that the whole place was redder than a Chinese's New Year celebration either - he couldn't see the difference between the carpet and the walls at all.

He kicked the gold-edged carpet and continued, just in time to catch the sight of the man as he retreated out of the revolving doors of the opera house.

"Hey you!" Apollo shouted, lapping up the steps two at a time as he descended the stairs leading to the lobby hurriedly. The man paused and looked around as if to determined where that sound came from and absentmindedly scratched his head. Shrugging, he strolled out into the pavement.

"I said....Wait!" Apollo yelled again, inciting a few indignant looks from the stragglers in the lobby. Indignant ones from the rich elite because they considered him a blight on peace and indignant looks from the working because if they had to pay so much to walk in here – and they damned well paid a lot – they don't want no crazy kid yelling at the top of his lungs in their face, especially when said lungs could compete with the singers inside in a volume contest.

"So sorry," he mumbled, pushing his way through a couple of them out of the way and into the street. He looked to the right. No sign of the bright blue beanie. He looked to the left. No sign of the bright blue beanie either. Damn, did he lose the guy? Shouldn't have wasted that time with those bloody tourists, should have just shoved right pass them.

He gnashed his teeth and decided to take himself down a random direction to pinpoint the man – dashing past a row of shop lots and a row of pubs and bar, cutting through a few alleyways before he got lucky and found the beanie bobbing up and down ahead of him down the street. He stumbled over a dumpster, and gave chase.

When he got within ear-shot of the man he yelled, "You, stalker!" but the man showed no signs of hearing – and if he did, he answered with a quickened pace. Apollo dogged him for a few more corners and alleys, pumping his feet as hard as he could, before Lady Luck smiled upon him and the man ran into a dead end.

"Damn," he heard him swore. He dug his feet into the ground to stop himself from hurtling straight into the man, his loafers making a sound of protest against being abused against the rough cement ground thusly.

"I-I got you--" He gasped, leaning a hand against a wall for support.

_Cardiac arrest spotted over the horizon, sir! _

He really needed to start working out more often...No wondered girls always seem to hit on Kristoph instead of him.

"Hmm. You know, you're not shouting it correctly, you should do it with more 'oomph'. Like, 'GOTCHA!' I find it makes more of an impact, know what I mean?" The man commented.

"Y-You--" He gasped again, collapsing partially against the wall. He would have expected the man to breeze right past him right then, but instead, he shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and laughed a good natured laugh.

"Don't worry about it, take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

"You--"

"Also, I think your hair's getting droopy. Why don't you take five to fix it--"

"Will you STOP INTERRUPTING ME!?" Apollo roared. That seemed to take the man aback a little, though he was by no means intimidated.

"Sure, why not?" He commented jovially.

"Shut up for five minutes please."

The man smiled and nodded. Apollo drew a breath and straightened himself up.

"You were there at the opera house." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. He gave no inclination that he ever spoke.

"Why were you following Mr. Gavin?" he shot at him the moment he regained his composure. No answer. He repeated the question again, and the man made silencing gestures at him.

"You can speak now," Apollo grounded out.

The man shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a paparazzi, I live to snap pictures of dishy celebrities."

"He's not a celebrity, he's a lawyer. No matter how famous he is, I find it hard to believe people would pay good money for pictures of him."

An infuriating grin. "Well, he's pretty hot. And I think U.S Law would definitely NOT mind having him splashed across their covers."

"That doesn't explain why you have to be so sneaky about it!"

"Uh, didn't you just hear what I said? I'm a paparazzi, I live to be sneaky."

"I'm not getting a straight answer out of you, am I?" Apollo snapped.

"Well....What's your definition of 'straight'? Because I wasn't aware there were homosexual answers."

"Forget it. Alright. What about your name then? You have one, don't you?"

"Uh...My name?"

"No, the bin's. Yes, _you_."

"Huh. My name is...." He flicked his eye at the thrash bin. "Paul Razi."

Apollo suppressed the urge to throw something solid and painful at the man. "Look," He grounded out. "I just want to know why the hell you're stalking Mr. Gavin, okay? And who the hell are you. Two very simple questions, is that so hard to answer?"

"Well. It isn't. Not technically anyway."

Apollo started tapping a foot.

"I'm not actually obligated to tell you anything."

The foot started tapping violently.

"And also, it's not like you'll get it anyway."

The foot stopped. Apollo raised a deadly calm eye at the man. Whoever this man was, he knew one thing for sure : that he was a master at beating around the bush. Well, he had something he liked to beat too.

Apollo thrusted his hand into a nearby bin, not even caring if it was dirty anymore, and flung the first thing his hand curled around – an empty bottle.

"Yow!" The hobo yelled and dodged the spinning bottle. The bottle crashed against the wall and shattered, and Apollo leaned down to grab another. If it broke the guy's skull into two, then well, served him right. He should have answered the question in the first place.

He flung another bottle at him, and he ducked. Two more – the man rolled behind a dumpster and yelled at him to stop. Apollo ran out of bottles, but made do with a spare brick instead. The brick bounced onto the wall and broke, some of it smashing into the man.

"Alright, alright, enough already!" He yelled at from behind his cover, rising hesitantly out from it. "I'll speak, so cut it out, Mr. Hothead."

"I swear to God, if you give me another stupid explanation..."

"Jeez, didn't I just say I'll answer you?" The man crawled out and swept the dirt of his pants as best he could. "Damn, Trucy's gonna have a field day when she sees this," he grumbled.

Apollo's foot started twitching.

"No need to give me the death glare. Just give me a moment...There." He pushed his beanie down back from where it had slipped a little and flick off more dirt from his gray fabric. "So, what do you want?"

"Why. Were. You. Stalking. Mr. Gavin?"

"Well, that huh?" He scratched his chin again, and for a moment Apollo thought he wasn't going to answer and decided that if he was going to be so stubborn, he'd just call Kristoph here himself. His fingers were itching towards his pocket when he answered him.

"I'm not exactly stalking him. I'm just uh, following him around a bit." He paused for a moment. "I'm a private detective, see?"

"YOU'RE a private detective?" Apollo was incredulous. "Excuse me for finding that a touch hard to believe."

"My, my, you really are Kristoph's assistant, aren't you? You sound a lot like him."

"And yes," he said. "I'm a private detective of sorts. I'm investigating something, and I figured Kristoph's the most likely source from which I can find out what I want."

"And what is it you're investigating, if you're investigating at all and not a really weird stalker?"

"Well...Have you heard about how Phoenix Wright fell from grace a couple of years ago?"

And then it clicked inside his head where he had seen him before – he looked exactly like Phoenix Wright from the poster in his bedroom! But...He scrutinized the stubble, unkempt on his face and the slippers from which his toes protruded out. There was no way, he thought, shaking his head. No way, his hero could had fallen so far and turned into this...Hobo.

"Of course, what about it?"

"I figured I could probably worm a couple more drops of information out of Gavin. He's the only one who stood up for the guy during his disbarment trial, from what I heard."

"He did?" Apollo asked, unable to suppress a grin on his face._ Way to go Mr. Gavin! He's the best!_

"Sure did."

He waited for more information, but when none was forthcoming, he questioned him. "That's all? That's why you've been following him around?"

"Yeap."

"Why the pictures then?" Apollo watched the man like a hawk as he started picking through the dirt on the ground with his right foot, scratching at it not unlike a chicken at scraps.

"Cross-reference you know...All that sort of thing..." He mumbled under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

The man was silent for a moment, rubbing his chin with his palm as though unsure how much he should tell Apollo.

"Why are you so keen on digging around Mr. Gavin?" Apollo asked again, feeling not unlike a parrot.

He stayed silent for another moment, then stared off at a spot to Apollo's right. "I heard Kristoph forges evidences himself."

Apollo's heart stopped beating for a moment. Then it went at a hundred a minute.

"There's no such thing," he stated, quite convincingly, if he said so himself.

"Well, that's what the rumour mills churn out – and you know what they say, there's no smoke without fire. So I figured, well heck, Wright got disbarred over shady forgeries, and Kristoph's a for –" Apollo threw him a dirty look. "--uh, rumoured patron of artists I mean, so why not dig there, where the mud smells the most like shit?"

"Well, you're wrong, he doesn't forge evidences," Apollo called out. All of a sudden, the look on the man's face changed, twisting from shock, to surprise, to disbelief. He started fingering something in his hoodie's pocket that glowed dimly, letting out a greenish sort of light through the fabric.

"So many locks..." He heard him breathed. Then he seemed to compose himself and his face became a cynical mask again.

"So, tell me, you're his assistant right? Have you heard him mentioned anything about Wright?"

Apollo glared at him suspiciously...He could have sworn he looked exactly like Phoenix Wright.

"Not really, other than the passing mention of him as a good attorney."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah."

"And you said he doesn't know anything about forgeries?" He called out.

"No, he doesn't." Apollo repeated, and he could have sworn the green light became brighter all of a sudden. Maybe it was like, a truth-telescope or something...He had heard of those on television, but it was just a cracked show about some village hung up on spirit channeling.

"Alright, if you're really what you're said..." he trailed off, satisfied with the explanation – though it left much to be desired. He had to admit he was starting to be disconcerted about the eerie glow from his pocket, especially since the sky was nearing evening and had started darkening."Fine. You're off the hook. Just stop following Mr. Gavin around or I'll call the cops on you." he warned, and turned to leave. He had counted ten whole steps before a firm grip clamp onto his elbow. He turned around to see the man with his fingers wrapped tightly onto his elbow, preventing him from moving it.

"What the-- Get off!" He yelled in his face, pulling his arm out of his grasp – but those fingers were like a vice, or a hook, latched tightly onto his flesh.

"You know something about Kristoph and forgeries that you're not telling, aren't you?" He hissed. For once, the man had lost that careless look plastered on his face. His gaze was serious and focused now, instead of roving around constantly like that of a drug addict or a liar, and it was focusing intensely on Apollo's face.

"I don't know anything!" he yelled, wiggling his elbow.

"Yes you do!" The man shouted back. "Tell me! What is it? Are the rumours true?"

"I said--" He shoved back with his free hand, twisting himself this way and that to loosen the grip on him. The fingers only clawed deeper. "I don't know anything! I'm just his assistant, why would I know anything!?"

"_**Tell me**_!" he roared.

"I don't know anything!" He shouted again, starting to get genuinely afraid at the furious man.

The hobo loosen his grip all of a sudden and Apollo stumbled forward, only managing to grab a cardboard in time to stop himself from hurtling forward completely. He looked up at the man and saw him clenching his fist and letting his nails bite into his own hand.

"You know something about it," he insisted in a hiss. "Just tell me what it is."

Apollo straightened himself and started backing away from the man, gasping. "Even if I d-do, and I'm not saying I do--" He ducked when the man shot an arm forward to grab his collar. "--Why should I tell you anyway?"

This left the man stunned, as if he never once considered why Apollo would NOT want to tell him all he knew.

"If you give me a reason, just one good reason--" he drew breath shakily. "-- Why I should tell you, then fine, I will. But Mr. Gavin hasn't done anything wrong – and as far as I'm concern, I'm not spilling on him."

"You know something," the man insisted again, this time more to himself than to Apollo, and he didn't bother with denying it – the man seemed to see through him anyway. Then something sparkled in his eye.

"So what you're saying is...If there's a sound reason for you to rat on him, you will?"

Apollo rubbed his arm in discomfiture. "Of course not! I'm not ever going to do that. Unless..."

"Unless?" The man pressed, advancing on him until he had little air to breath, much less think on.

"Unless it's really something serious – or it's his fault, okay? He's my fa—Mentor. I'm not just going to rat on him." He looked aside and considered what kind of situation would made him turn on Kristoph and came up with well...None. "Or something." He muttered under his breath.

The hobo leaned forward, peering at his face. The sky was almost completely dark by now, and there wasn't any lights in the alley and Apollo resisted the urge to bolt.

"Alright. I can see you're a pretty interesting kid." He mused, rubbing his chin again. "You're planning to become a lawyer, and follow in Kristoph's footsteps, is that it?"

Apollo nodded.

"Okay." He straightened up. "You said your name is Apollo Justice?"

"I didn't."

"Well, someone did then," He grinned. "Apollo Justice...I'll remember the name.

He nodded at him as though he was a piece of delightful beef. "I'll think I'll look forward to the day you become a defense attorney."

The man nodded at him again, and without so much as a by-your-leave, he walked off like a cowboy in an old high-noon kinda movie, humming a tune from Steel Samurai, leaving Apollo to gawk at the mysterious man who...

"_Hey, you haven't told me your name!_" He bellowed.

* * *

By the time Apollo retraced his steps back to the Opera House, the sky had already turned a purplish orange colour as though it seethed in rage at him, or was preparing itself to boil a lobster. The pavements started crowding with people heading for a night out and the shops either closed down or put up colourful neon signs announcing their latest promotions and discounts. When he finally staggered back on the street the theater was located on, he smelled like rat guts and a sewer system, no thanks to chasing that hobo down to that dirty stinking alleyway. It was so repulsive that he didn't think anyone deserved to be in there for more than five minutes, not even someone horribly mean, like Jacques.

The theater was particularly boisterous as people poured in to catch the night's performance, and it was in front of it where he found Kristoph tapping his foot angrily.

"Where were you?" He snarled, the moment he saw Apollo. "I looked high and low for you. I wasn't aware that the toilet of the theater is not in fact, in the theater."

"I'm sorry, I was--"

"And god, you smell. Where have you BEEN to?" He prodded Apollo on the shoulder. "You smell like you've been in the sewers, or worse."

"Nah, I've just been talking to your fan." He paused for effect. "Must be his smell rubbing onto me – too bad that's how your fans smell like, huh, Kristoph?" He snapped back.

"My fan...?" Apollo hesitated, glancing around the crowded entrance, and Kristoph took the hint. "Into the car then."

They piled into Kristoph's car, but not before Kristoph sprayed him all over with perfume in an attempt to neutralize the smell. Now he smelt like potpourri shit, or pickled rotten fish. Great, just great. He slammed the door shut with a vengeance.

"So, what fan are we talking about that has you so secretive?"

"I don't know, ask yourself. Who's that guy with the beanie?" He countered.

"The...beanie? Oh, that's an old friend."

"Well, your old friend must like you a lot, since he bothered showing up today at the theater, and with a camera on hand to snap some sleazy pictures of you too."

Kristoph looked up sharply from where he had been examining a flyer that had been plastered on his windshield, advertising for a church gathering for 'lost sheep.'

"What are you talking about?"

"He was there, while you're all chummy with Mr. Moustache. On the top box, staring at you guys like you're dessert."

"The guy who showed up at the house the other day?"

"Know any other guy with a beanie?" He leaned back on the seat, massaging his shoulders. Kristoph was too stunned even to chastise him for dirtying his seats.

"You're sure that's him?"

"Pretty. Why do you think I smell this bad? I've been running after him for the whole hour before finally cornering him in an alley." He announced smugly.

"You talked to him?" Kristoph was alarmed.

"Um, yeah."

He frowned at Apollo. "You shouldn't have done that, he could have been dangerous."

"Not unless you're in the habit of keeping dangerous friends."

"Well, I could be!" Kristoph snapped. Apollo stared at him, surprised by the little outburst.

"What's wrong with you? I can take care of myself – he's just a normal guy, not a Villain with the power to Point me to death or something."

Kristoph heaved a heavy sigh. "Sorry, I overreacted."

They sat for a moment in silence as Kristoph stewed over the information while Apollo pondered the fact that Kristoph seemed to take apologizing far easier now. When he had first moved in, you could pry his mouth apart with torture equipment outlawed by the Genevan Convention and he wouldn't so much as squeaked the first syllable of 'sorry'.

"What did he want, did you ask?"

"Yeah, though the answer doesn't come easily. I had to sell my sanity for it."

"And it was...?" Kristoph's eyes sparkled eagerly, and Apollo felt a little sick when he recited the entire conversation, leaving out some parts of it as he saw fit, even though it made him feel like a traitor of the worst order.

"He...Thought I'm connected to Phoenix Wright's disbarment?"

"Yeah, got really agitated too, and convinced I know something about you and forgeries."

An alarmed look. "And did you tell him?"

"Come on, if I did, don't you think I'll be requesting police protection right about now, instead of calmly sitting here to discuss the terms of my doom and punishment?"

He cracked a smile at that, though it was short-lived. He took a few strands of hair between his index finger and thumb and rubbed them against each other in a circular motion. He sighed. "Why is it that trying to be good is so much more harder than being evil?" He asked Apollo, putting aside the issue of his friend aside for the moment. Apollo grinned back at him.

"That's the novelty of being good."

"What, being cruelly tortured is what's good about being good?"

He laughed at that. "Nah, but hey, at least you're trying. Now someone will write something nice for your tombstone."

Kristoph smiled at that. The sky broke and raindrops started falling heavily and noisily onto the windshield. Kristoph started the engine and turned the wipers on and they watched, fascinated, as the wipers went back and forth, back and forth, clearing, sweeping off the water droplets.

Apollo stared at the hypnotizing movements and drowsed off until a gentle touch on his cheek jolt him awake. He looked over at Kristoph, who was smiling tenderly at him. "I think we should be heading home," Apollo muttered drowsily. "I need a bath."

"That you do," Kristoph chuckled. Then in an impulse, he ruffled Apollo's messed up hair. "You make a good evil sidekick, Apollo."

Apollo grinned at him and fell asleep to the rain's pitter patter.

* * *

Apollo moved into the dormitory of his university shortly after the incident, and was much aggrieved when he was told to do so. Kristoph helped him packed his belongings, which had blossomed from a meager bag and a few items with enough space that he could rattle the objects around like dices, to the huge bag he had lugged up the steps to his room – because guess what, the elevator broke down the day he decided to move in.

Kristoph had been quiet when they had packed his stuff, not condescending to speak until he absolutely had to to Apollo, not out of meaness or baseness of emotion, but because, he was, if he was to be truly honest about it, sad about Apollo's departure. The rooms were new and sparse, and they felt somehow even lesser of a room when Apollo wasn't there to fill it with his booming voice and his 'Chords of Steel' and his ceaseless shouting of 'objection' and his ridiculous poses to get it exactly right when he pointed his Finger. Apollo on the other hand had little to say out of worry for his new environment. Despite years of abuse by schoolmates he never had been able to utterly abandon the side of him that hoped that it would turn out to be better – that he would have friends of his own mindset, instead of ridiculing him for what he wanted to believe. At least it'll be okay this time, he was going to law school, the once place he had wanted to go – back at the institute because he believed it to be his calling, and now because he wanted to be like Kristoph – an amazing lawyer who never once lost his composure no matter how tough things were.

They shared their 'last supper', as Kristoph cheekily put it at a fast food joint, and for once Kristoph didn't say a single thing about oil and fat and burgers in general. He had helped loaded Apollo's belongings into the car next day and rolled it all the way to the doorstep of his hostel building and gave him a hand when he found out the elevator was broken – a rare thing for him to do. Before Apollo left, he had looked back at Kristoph and grinned.

"Don't get into trouble without me now."

Kristoph had raised a cool eyebrow. "Have I ever?"

And that was that.

Dormitory life was less life-changing than Apollo had expected, but it was a difference nonetheless. It wasn't as cramped as the tiny rooms back in the institute, but it definitely wasn't as spacious as Kristoph's abode, which he had gotten used to. The standard room size, in which he was a proud owner of one, measured ten feet across and twenty feet long, to be shared by two students, excluding the toilet, which ate up a chunk of the room through sheer awkwardness of it's position, being directly opposite the door to the room. Apollo had arrived before his assigned roommate, and had taken the left bed, which had blue bedsheets that was of a shade that reminded him of Kristoph. His roommate turned out to be a boy on scholarship from Hong Kong, and had glasses thicker than the likes Apollo had ever seen. They got along well enough, and things in the dormitory at least, was peaceful.

Things were not so in the classroom.

Ever since it surfaced to the general person that Apollo in fact came with the recommendation stamp of Kristoph Gavin, at the moment the most wildly celebrated – if there was such a thing with law at all, but if there was then Kristoph definitely came close to being a celebrity of sorts on U.S Law - he had become a target for everyone to watch in bated breath for him to succeed...

While secretly praying that he would not.

The professors were indifferent as to whether or not he is recommended by a famous defense attorney. One lecturer hated his guts, but he taught an entirely redundant branch of the law anyway, so it didn't matter to Apollo, who skipped his classes more often than he attended them. On the other hand, his lecturer for trials and it's practice was Lana Skye, who recently took time off the force to become a guest lecturer of sorts within the district and he took to her class like fish to water. He may lack in confidence, as his report stated about him – but he never once lacked in enthusiasm, and it made his list of favourite classes.

What he found even worse than the stress from peers was the disillusionment about law though. He finally understood what Kristoph had said about the law not turning out to be like he had imagined it would be – because it wasn't. Almost every student from the middle class, as opposed to the preppies, enrolled with the hope to someday make the world a better place, and left three years later wanting nothing but to secure a job with a good firm and earn the big bucks and bill some clients. Law school and it's intense rivalry cannot keep foolish children's dreams afloat, even if they did taught ethics, because it was a taste of the real world, and the real world was not ethical.

He spent time stewing over this disillusionment, and had called Kristoph from campus and told him about it, but Kristoph had, to his initial horror, laughed.

"That's how it is, Apollo. Every man for himself, and money is very necessary for himself."

"But...Isn't that wrong? That everyone is so hung up about making money?"

"Law is a profression, not a calling, Justice." He had admonished sternly.

"Can't it be both?"

"That's a question you can ask answer yourself, boy."

And he had answered it. His answer was yes.

Peace then, was not in the question – but he found at least, an alternative. He dug out the journal Kristoph gave him one day, while he was rooting through his luggage, which he never did fully unpack because there was not enough space in their cramped little quarters. He had fingered the golden letters, and found a replacement for Kristoph in the book – as a confidant, and as a friend. He started spending more time studying and less time whining, and his grades rose from being average to slightly better than average. He found a few friends that shared his passion for justice. Weeks rolled by at once sometimes without him feeling much depressed. Exams stressed him out, and he felt vague pangs of jealousy whenever he saw a particularly talented but lazy classmate getting the better of him. Sometimes he hid himself for days from the social scene and only reappeared for classes but all his friends, but all his peers agreed unanimously on where to find him, no matter the season :

There was a tiny lake at the side of the campus, and it had trees springing all around it that changed dramatically with the seasons, though it was never fully buried in snow in the winter. It wasn't very popular with students, mostly because it had a rather swampy feel about it, and most people lived their entire school life without ever knowing of it's existence. Apollo however, was often unapologetically there, sitting amongst the leaves during fall – his favourite season – by the lake. He would lean against a tree with a thick scarf Kristoph had clobbered together for him with his atrocious knitting skills in an attempt to make Apollo feel more at home. He would be carrying his red-bound journal, and when the weather was just nice, he could be found snoozing slightly in the autumn air.

* * *

Note : Yeap, fast forwarding. I can't be expected to meander forever on bugs and death-threats, really, so I'm speeding up through his college days. Maybe. And of course, there is the part about people with bone china plates getting conked in the head, and a trial where Apollo ends up sticking his own mentor into jail. Huh, wonder what Klavier would say to that.

If I stay on the drama forever, this isn't going to ever end. So there!


	13. XIII : Minutes to midnight

**EDIT : Due to technical difficulties, my update will be a little later than my usual ones. Give me a grace period of a week, from 11/1/10 onwards, kay? If I'm still not back by then, you can eat me for supper.**

Anon : Don't worry about it, I don't make heartbreaking endings, or even attempt them, even when said heartbreaking endings can be sometimes super awesome, I'll end up depressed for a whole week, which is not uh...Healthy. XD Fortunately for our mental wellbeing though, I've already decided when I started this story that I'll end after the first/second case of AJ...So Kristoph won't be completely broken yet....Maybe.

BloodDawn : Sorry, I'm afraid I'm not going to concentrate much on Apollo's college life, since I think I've meandered about quite enough. (And omg, have you seen the length of this chapter??? More college stuff would be the end of me _ )And....About Phoenix, well I'm not sure, but I think he only got the photo of Thalassa during the conversation with Brushel in the studio AFTER the murder of Drew. I think. I'm not sure, (even though this does make a huge contradiction inside the game, as duh, why is Phoenix moving this from present to past like Zelda and the oracle of ages?) so I don't think he'd noticed the bracelet yet. The soonest he would notice would have to be after confronting Zak at the club/after trial 1. And Kristoph would naturally have the photo because he's a weird stalker who likes to keep files. There! Excuse complete.

Note: I had Apollo enroll in college at 18. That's 4 years before AJAA, which means that this is already two years after the previous chapter. Uh, sorry if I confuse you. x.x

Okay, okay. I know I've been beating around the bush long enough. So now, let's countdown as all the characters on the stage stands up one by one in preparation of the war to come...

* * *

_In which we all rush madly and gaily,_

_towards that which is nothing;_

_For this may yet be the last time we are happy;_

_***_

_XIII : Minutes to midnight_

_Two years before midnight._

**[I think it's 7:00]**

Apollo's eyes were already open, with or without the heavy clock - now a popular merchandise in the market - or it's voice announcing that it was in fact seven in the morning. He had been awake for two whole hours now, and the dirty ceiling with it's yellow stains had nearly put him to sleep on sheer merit of it's bareness. Only his nerves kept him awake, because they were drawn tighter than the strings of a bow, and they quivered just as much as one that had been strung. He looked at the ceiling again, and the ceiling beamed down at him, it's stain somehow looking more magnanimous than usual. He put a hand backwards to grope for his cellphone without taking his eyes off the stain and lowered the phone down to eye level and squinted his red, slightly bloodshot eyes at them.

June 12th, it said, in looping font configured by Kristoph before he had passed it over to Apollo in favour of one more suitable for his lawyerly pursuits, a sleek new black phone that could do everything short of producing oxygen. He squeezed his eyes at them and shut them for a moment, tired as they were of looking at roof stains. He opened them, and changed the font back to Arial. It still said June 12th, and Apollo begin to believe that it was really in fact June 12th, the day summer vacation begins, as opposed to June 11th, the day summer vacation does not begin.

"Yes! It's the holidays!" He shouted, and threw the phone into the air. It hit the low ceiling with a loud thud and fell back into the bed that Apollo vacated hurriedly. He rolled off it in one swift motion that would make James Bond proud, and landed on his feet, despite his bed being the upper one in the bunk bed.

"Come on, stupid, it's summer vacation!" He yelled at the denizen occupying the lower level. The boy opened one eye and blinked at him.

"What time is it?"

"Seven!"

"Oh." A confused pause. "Is the pipe leaking?"

"Nope."

"Okay, something's on fire?"

"Nah."

"Did someone died?"

"No! What's wrong with you? Get up already!"

"Not," the boy rolled over and presented Apollo with the view of his back. " before ten. It's summer vacation, as you said, and I'm not getting up before ten."

He snuggled into the blankets. "Actually, make that twelve. It's been a long day."

"Jeez, pig."

"Shut up, Pole."

"Wake up, Jack-ass." Apollo poked him in the ribs, to no avail. He sighed and started packing – not that he had much to do, since he had already packed everything neatly into his case a whole week ago in a frenzy of pre-summer vacation madness, and it had irritated his two roommates – they had added another one to their room and replaced Apollo's bed with a bunk bed due to space constrictions – because he had no clothes, or indeed any toiletry at all, since it was all firmly stashed away in his bag.

Liam woke shortly after he pulled out the bag and admired his handiwork, and groped for his glasses on the bedside table. Apollo found them and put them onto his face.

"Good morning, Apollo." He smiled at him, yawning a little. His grin was wide and his teeth a little crooked, but it was an endearing, mousy smile.

"Morning, Liam." Apollo opened his arms wide and waved them around a little. " Guess what!? It's summer vacation!"

"It is?" Liam said, looking stunned. "I thought it was tomorrow."

"Well, today's tomorrow. That is to say, today's the tomorrow of yesterday."

The young man blinked at him. When he untangled the words and understood, he nodded at Apollo, but looked considerably more dejected.

As it turned out, he found out why his two roommates were less than enthusiastic about summer vacation. Liam's family was back in Hong Kong, and after a blush and many stammers, he finally admitted that he wouldn't be able to go home for the summer, since his parents were both working and he doesn't have the money needed to fly himself back home, even if he wished he could. Apollo had nodded sympathetically. Jacques, on the other hand, was much more vocal about why he wasn't happy about summer vacation.

"Okay. The sun's hot. The ladies aren't. And I gotta go back to The Fish. What part of that sounds good to you?"

Apollo smirked at him. "Should have thought it through more carefully before you decided to come after me to beat me up, eh?"

"I didn't study my ass off and took law to beat you. I studied my ass off and took law because I want to SQUASH you. Like a bug," he added with a solicitous nod and a fist to his palm.

"I don't know how you passed your SATs with an attitude like that," Apollo sighed.

"Well, I did didn't I? And better than you, I might add."

"It was just luck, you hack." Apollo snapped.

"Yeah? Well looks like I have plenty then. Want some?"

Apollo had aimed a little kick at Jacques, who had been assigned to the room next door when the campus finally ran out of dormitories. Upon noticing the forehead of the boy next door, Jacques had jumped on him and had beaten him up in revenge for all those years ago. Afterward, they shared a coke in the cafeteria discussing the events that had led to him being there. Jacques it seem, finally got the idea into his head after a severe beating by a gang member in the neighbourhood that at a little over 5"4 and not growing anymore, he had little chance of becoming a criminal - never mind a gang leader, his previous life dream.

So he decided to become the next best thing – A lawyer.

"What's there not to like about the law? I can stamp my name where I should stamp yours, and voila! I'm suddenly the person getting all of your beef when you croak."

Apollo looked forward to the day he defended him in court.

But whether he was scarcely recognizable from the Jacques back from the institute that Apollo had known – foul mouth or not – did not save him from the inevitable fact that he had to return to the institute, and had to return there until he reached the fortunate age of 21 - a new law to protect the underaged - which would not be for an entire year yet.

Apollo had a solution to the problem halfway through the day though, and he took out his phone and punched Kristoph's number in immediately.

'Kristoph?"

"Apollo."

"Uh, hey. Am I interrupting something?"

"No."

"Okay, so listen, I would really like to invite two friends over for the summer, since they don't have a place to go. Kinda like an all summer long sleepover. Can I? I mean, god knows we have enough rooms to shelter refugees of the second world war."

A long silence.

"Okay," Kristoph finally whispered into a muffled sounding phone. Click.

Just like that, without even putting up the fight he had expected, or railing against him bringing home every unfortunate friends of his, like he had expected he would. He stared at the disconnected phone and chewed on his lip lightly, contemplating this new development in Kristoph's personality, then deciding he would grill him for information later. He pocketed the phone and turned around to his two friends, one with a gleaming hopeful face behind thick lenses and one with an expression of detached, Cool Unbotheredism, which was something Jacques had invented and perfected.

"So, who wants to have a girly sleepover?"

* * *

"Okay."

Kristoph clicked off the phone with a quiet snap and pocketed it, exactly the way Apollo was doing five hundred miles away. He flattened himself against the wall, and if he could have somehow managed it, would have stopped breathing entirely. He leaned closer towards the fire-escape door, which had been opened slightly and the light from the room inside filtered out into the fire escape stairs he was crouching in.

Like a little sneak.

"Journalist doesn't know where disappearing magician is, end quote." A voiced muttered on the other side of the door, nearly smothered by the thick walls placed between them.

"Are you sure about that, pal?"

"Of course! Journalist's honour is most intact." There was a disturbing scratching noise, that somehow managed to transcend the space better than a voice could.

"Okay, I'll let you go. But if you have any information you gotta gimme a call, okay?"

"I uh--" The voice stammered off nervously. "--Of course, of course. I'll tell you right away if I see or hear anything about Zak Gramarye."_ But not before I publish it first_, Kristoph could almost hear him say. There was a sound of papers being shuffled, and then the sound of a door being opened and shut. The cloying smell of mint left the room and the little passageway of Kristoph's and he breathed a little easier.

Okay, he was gone. Kristoph straightened himself up, and only when he started breathing again was he aware of how long he had been holding his breath when his lungs let out a screaming neuron message of pain in protest. He exhaled a shaky breath in relief, both of his organ and his mind.

He had seen the annoying, toothbrush-carrying journalist earlier, while he had been driving home from court early to prepare for Apollo's return home, carrying a bundle of new curtains with a silly smile plastered all over his face. What he had not count on though, was the fact that the journalist had walked right into the headquarters of the police building as if he owned it – or had an appointment with someone inside. Kristoph being Kristoph, he couldn't suppress the surge of paranoia that pumped through his veins.

Spark Brushel, the reputed confidant of the famous Gramarye. Making a social call to the police.

How could that not spell trouble?

He had immediately slotted his car into the police department's parking lot, handed the security guard a fiver, and told him to pretend he didn't exist. Then he had climbed all the way up the fire escape, stopping on floors for minutes at a time to try to pinpoint where the journalist was and taking in the dusty environment of the long abandoned fire escape. He hit jackpot in no time though -the suffocating mint smell had proved to be the journalist undoing.

Kristoph straightened up to leave, having gotten what he came there for. Spark Brushel was here to answer a police summon, not the other way around, and that was enough. For now. It left him in a little bind though, as he would have to make sure that the man would have to be watched like a hawk in case he found any information on Zak, or decided to divulge what he knew of him. If it surfaced that he had been the hired lawyer until Phoenix butted into the case, well, anyone would be able to put two and two together.

He was taking his leave and already a couple of steps down the stairs when he heard the detective that had been questioning Brushel's voice.

"--Yeah, sorry pal, but he doesn't have anything new to add."

Some shuffling in the room.

"He said he's gonna tell me if he finds out anything about Zak Gramarye."

"Huh? You don't believe him?"

"Okay, man on the job! I'll keep an eye on him!" The door the room opened and closed, and someone entered the place briefly. He resumed when the door clicked again.

"No way pal! The last time I sneaked a peek at the chief's file he was madder than the time I sneaked out his chocolates and replaced them with weenies. Maggey and I had to live on ramen for the whole month, the way he cut my salary."

"Okay, I'll tell you if Brushel comes in again, you can count on me, Mr. Wright! And can you send in a good word with Mr. Edge..."

Kristoph didn't hear anything else, because he was too furious. He shuffled down the stairs, cursing himself for his own carelessness and stupidity. How could he have not seen that coming? He never once imagined that Phoenix would have spies or ears in the police department – or that he would have access to information privy to an officer. Why HADN'T he thought of that? God knows he himself had a baker's dozen of eyes and ears in the department.

He knew the answer though – _arrogance._

He was so sure of his superiority to Phoenix Wright that he never once imagined what he was capable of, or if he did, held it in such extremes. He was digging around, and Kristoph wasn't doing a good enough job covering all his trails.

He put a hand around the door handle and turned it, escaping out into the warm sunlight. The sunlight burned and prodded at him, but it was a welcome change after the musty insides of the cramped quarters. He raised a hand to shield him from the sunlight as he headed back to where his car was parked, his mind spinning a mile a minute at a time.

Spark Brushel would have to be kept under observation, he noted sullenly. And come to think of it, so did Drew Misham, who also held a piece of incriminating evidence against him. The problem was, this was a conundrum he couldn't solve alone, since it would be pretty obvious to the casual bystander if he loitered around the Mishams' apartments all day long, or tail the journalist around.

He would have to hire or blackmail someone into doing it for him. He sighed, and gritting his teeth, stomped towards his car determined to counter Phoenix in this shit fight.

* * *

_One and a half years before midnight._

_"I'm graduating this year."_

"Congratulations, Apollo." came the smooth reply. Kristoph placed the completed paperwork into a folder and proceeded to bind up the rest of the papers on his table. His fingers slipped, and the papers moved out of place – it was hard to bind paper properly when one hand of his was preoccupied with the phone.

"Why don't you call again later, when you have say, actually graduated?" suggested Kristoph mildly.

_"Well...I just wanted to tell you that when we DO graduate, the ceremony's on the 16th of October."_

"And you feel it necessary to tell me that because...?"

_"Um."_ The boy hesitated a little._ "You've been so busy lately. I mean, your firm's practically the top now, and whenever I call you hardly even have time to talk anymore...So I figured I'll just tell you earlier in the year, before you're all booked."_

"Apollo," he sighed. "If you're trying to nag me for being inattentive to your plights, just come on out and say it, alright?"

_"Well, you HAVE kind of been busy." _he complained._ "And it never seems to be court work you're busy with."_

Kristoph scribbled his signature onto a paper his secretary handed him and waved her off.

"And why do you say that?"

_"Because the newspaper always report your cases, and there's hardly enough there to justify your being busy all the time."_

"Oh? The newspaper's the world leading authority on all things Kristoph Gavin now, is it?" Kristoph snapped.

_"You know what I mean, Kristoph."_

"No I don't."

_"Are you back to alleyway meetings again?"_

"I'm not a drug addict, darling son. You don't have to check up on me every other minute," He bit out, lacing it with bitter sarcasm.

_"Fine...I'm just worried, that's all."_ Apollo sighed on the line, and Kristoph found himself softening.

"You worry too much. Look, if you're so bored, I'll drive down to campus tonight and we can go out for dinner, alright?"

_"Can we really?_" Apollo perked up like a dog at the sight of a bone.

"Yes, unless of course, people keep me busy all day with unnecessary phone calls." Kristoph stated dryly.

The phone was disconnected in five seconds without so much as a mumbled 'bye'.

* * *

_One year before midnight. _

Kazaf Devereux was woken up with a gentle shake to his shoulders and he mumbled groggily from where his head was buried in a mountain of case files. He looked up and squinted at the unknown assailant to his melatonin cycle, but his eyes were wet from yawning and unfocused from the amount of time he had spent with his head pressed heavily onto them. It took him a minute to register the form of his sister.

His sister smiled at him. "Working all nighters is bad for your health you know, you little workaholic." Kazaf rubbed his eyes and wobbled back into a seating position, slipping his feet back into his discarded sneakers.

"Sorry," he yawned. "Just encountered something interesting, that's all."

Elizabeth walked around the table and randomly picked up a file, flipping through it. She handled even more file cases than he did, and it wasn't long before her eyes settled on the case's particulars.

"Isn't this one of Phoenix Wright's earlier cases?" She asked, pointing vaguely at a spot where the defense attorney's name was there.

"Yeah, it's his. I've been flipping through the files of cases he handled."

"Flipping through seems a bit of a gentle euphemism," Elizabeth noted, looking pointedly at the high mountain of files that paraded unabashedly on his table like hookers in a strip club. Kazaf blushed.

"He uh...Had quite a few." He muttered. "Of interest that is."

He looked around at the office, which was vacated and deadly silent in the middle of the night – everyone else had left the department hours ago, and only a few officers on 24-hours duty was still loitering around the premise, and despite it being a whole floor above them, Kazaf could hear the silent movements of the officers on the lower floor.

"Can I have a coffee?" He said, and plucked the folder out of his sister's hands to examine it. His sister made a tch-ing noise at him to admonished the way he just took the folder without asking and strutted off to a corner of the floor and it's stainless steel sinks and coffee machine. Hypnotizing sound of hot water being poured accompanied Kazaf as he read through the cases, his little brow furrowed in concentration.

A cup of coffee was placed in front of him, on his Nickel Samurai Special Edition bag, which he had placed on the table with it's contents spilled onto the table like misplaced entrails. He grabbed the coffee and chugged it down.

"What's so interesting about Wright that you have to spend all night on the file?" Elizabeth asked over the coffee mug. He placed it back on the table and raised a hand to stop conversation. One moment. Two. Then a loud belch.

"Ahhh, that's better," he sighed.

"Kazaf, honestly, your manners are horrible." She chided, exasperated despite the smile on her face. "You could have at least covered your mouth."

Kazaf grunted. She wiped his mouth with a tissue.

"Alright, now that you're caffeinated, answer my question please."

The boy contemplated the file for a moment before answering in hesitant tones. "It's like they're at a war, Elizabeth."

"Who and who?" Elizabeth had never managed getting him to call her something more informal, like Liz.

"Kristoph Gavin and Phoenix Wright."

"Kristoph and Wright?"

"Yeah, I mean, I saw Monte wandering around the city listlessly today, like he doesn't have anything better to do, so I followed him around the city."

Elizabeth raised a dainty eyebrow. "YOU followed him? I thought you don't like dirty shoes?"

Kazaf grinned. "Well, I followed him in mind, anyway. Klein's the one I sent down after him. Guess what Monte's doing this weekend on the streets?"

"Hmm?"

"He's following Spark Brushel." He stated, flattening his mouth into a single line in distaste. "And he's not the only one either. Gumshoe's after him too."

"Well..." Elizabeth hesitated, deciding to joke it off instead. "Maybe his parents named him that for a reason then."

The boy laughed, and tilted his chair backwards. "Yeah apt name. And they're not the only ones either. Meekins and another officer was loitering around the Mishams' apartment too."

"The Mishams...?" Elizabeth frowned in concentration, trying to recall the name. She could hardly remember a name anymore, ever since Kazaf became the district's chief police and started embroiling himself in the cases.

"They're forgers." He stated flatly. "Probably the one who forged the evidence of that case six years ago."

She sighed. "I don't know why Kristoph did that. He ruined the man in petty revenge."

"He's a petty man," Kazaf shrugged carelessly, waving his sister's protest off. "It's true - don't get prissy. He's a nice enough guy underneath, but he has enough dirt on him to build a pyramid and more."

"I don't even know who's at fault anymore," she sighed. "It's Kristoph's fault for doing that in the first place, but I can't say I approve of Wright's intelligence either. I mean, why on earth did he use that piece of evidence, flimsy as it is?"

"He's a flimsy man," was his answer. He threw the file onto the table and it hit it with a bang, throwing the mug off the edge it was sitting on. It fell and broke, and they both stared at the pieces of the mug.

"What are you going to do with that information?" Elizabeth asked at last in a quiet voice.

"With what? Knowing about the truth behind the forgery? Or the fact they're both keeping eyes out on the witnesses of the case?" He spat in disgust. "I don't know why no one else notices their stupid little squabble. First Phoenix runs around trying to jiggle people for information. Then Kristoph comes running, and they both start bribing people to keep an eye on Brushel and Misham. What do they think normal people are, stupid?"

"You wouldn't have figured it out either if you aren't the chief police," she reminded him. He clicked his tongue.

"Idiots."

"Are you going to stop them?"

"Why should I? And on what grounds? I can't walk up to them and tell them I've been bribing Vera with chocolates now, can I?"

She chuckled at that. "You're just going to let them be then?"

He sat silently while she leaned against the table with her arms folded, waiting for an answer.

"If I leave them alone, they'll destroy each other," he said at last. "Wright won't stop until he finds the answer – that much he has proven time and time again in his old cases, and nothing I can do will stop him - short of setting him up and stashing him away in prison. That is, unless Kristoph doesn't get to him first."

"'Get' him?" Elizabeth voiced, alarmed. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out an article of an unidentified body in a New York subway station, together with a clipped on article of the blood's DNA test a day later. Below it was the headline – 'Chief of Police, Suicidal'. She stared at the article, then at him.

"You can't- you can't seriously think that Kristoph..." She trailed off in indignation.

"He was covering something up for him," he avoided looking her in the eye. "Edgeworth was offered the position of Chief Prosecutor of New York, since the guy resigned, fearing for some kind of serial murderer targeting the law's big sent it to me, asking if I knew anything about it."

"I can't be sure if that was really the reason why he ended up being dragged a dozen miles under a train, but it's a possibility."

"Never," Elizabeth stated firmly, with unshakable conviction. "Kristoph would never do something like that. He's underhanded, I know. But he would never do something like that – he's not _EVIL_."

Kazaf sighed, still not meeting her eye. "Okay, if you say so sis." He stared at the broken mug some more and sighed again. "Sometimes I think Spiderman got it right. Power and responsibility, blabla."

She put a hand on his shoulder. "You're not responsible for what they're doing, Kazaf."

"I'm the chief police, you know," his tone was sarcastic. "It might escape your notice the little duty call – root out all evil."

"But you cannot convict them of a crime they haven't commit."

He pondered the words, and resolved them by staring deeply into the window, full of fingerprints from careless officers.

"When Phoenix gets enough dirt on Kris, all hell's gonna break lose," he closed his eyes and breathed into the window, clouding it a little with a mist in the cold. "I just hope no one gets caught up in it."

He looked up, and his sister nodded at him. He gave up the fight with indecision, and left with his sister after packing up his belongings and stuffing his lunchbox into his bag. On their way out, his sister reached for the switch to turn the lights off, but he stopped her.

"Leave it on, please. It'll give me a reason to cut Gumshoe's salary tomorrow," he said, with a mischievous grin and a dimple, walking off with his sister after they locked up the office, breaking into a whine a short distance away for some muffins.

* * *

_Eight months before midnight._

Apollo's graduation ceremony was well attended by friends and family – even though they were all not his. Families trampled the flower beds in the campus' gardens as they hurry forward to take a picture with their smart looking relatives. There were many smiles, and there were many tears as cameras were raised and snaps and flashes went off incessantly, always pointed towards the little makeshift stage that had been erected in the middle of the garden, covered with a large piece of dusty midnight blue cloth that only saw action once a year.

Students loitered around, torn between tears of joy and tears of frustration. The joyful ones were the ones who had bright futures, with a repertoire of good grades under their belts and with only the bar exam to look forward to. These were clustered among family members that were beaming from ear to ear, convinced that their child was only one minor obstacle away from becoming a full fledged member of the elite. Students of another kind loitered in another area, sandwiched awkwardly between lecturers and professors who attended the ceremony, trying to look all familial and warm to stop your average aunt to shake their head sadly at them. Some of these were traumatised by the very mention of the bar exam, and Apollo never once pitied those who had laughed scornfully when he started studying a whole year ago for the bar exam.

Jacques had nearly trotted off to join the family-less lawyers-in-making, but Apollo dragged him over to join Liam and himself. Liam's parents had flown in from Hong Kong just for this joyous occasion, and they, both bespectacled, were taking their glasses off and dabbing at their eyes almost comically. Liam looked over at where Apollo and Jacques was and blushed all the way to his hairline at the spectacle they were causing, but Apollo gave him the thumbs up. Liam grinned, happy and proud of it. Apollo, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck.

He strained his neck at the road leading out of the garden, where the parents were all pouring in from. The trickle of parents arriving were already slowing down, most were already seated in the folding chairs, waiting patiently for the graduation ceremony to start. Still no sign of Kristoph.

"Chill, Pole. He'll come - it's you after all." Jacques jibed. "Wouldn't stay away from his little boy's big day now, would he?"

Apollo didn't answer, merely sticking out his neck as far as it would reach. After almost twenty minutes later with no sign of Kristoph, even Jacques stopped the jokes and started patting him awkwardly on the back instead. He would have laughed at the expression on the kid's face if he wasn't so nervous himself. He pulled out his phone and texted a message to Kristoph.

**U DIN'T RLY FORGOT ME DID U????**

No answer. Some of the juniors carried in a podium onto the stage, and the president of the school walked up and stood behind it, trying to calm down all the frenzied parents. It was like calming down a raging tornado, and it took a further fifteen minutes. Apollo stood beside Jacques and Liam amongst the students lined up behind the make-shift curtains of the stage, waiting for it to come up and present them to the audience. He poked his head out behind the train of the curtain and stared at the assembled and breathless audience – no sign of a blonde head. He grounded his teeth in annoyance.

If he doesn't show up, he would, he would-- Oh he didn't know what he would do anymore. Maybe elope with Jacques and tell the papers Kristoph Gavin is too much of a lawyer to even attend his own son's graduation. Liam squeezed his shoulder in a show of support, and Jacques gave him a punch on the other side to make him felt better. He felt bruised all over. He poked his head out one last time while the president of the board was making his speech. He was wrapping up the speech, and it was probably only about five minutes more before the graduation begins in earnest. No sign of Kristoph.

As he stood side by side with the other students, he felt tears stinging his eyes and started blinking them out, refusing to look at the giddy, smiling classmates of his. This was so.._.Unfair_, he thought in a little mental tantrum. He would never forgive Kristoph. Never. The guy deserved to be stuck in a quicksand pit and roasted with peppers. He bit his lower lip and swallowed, refusing to respond to Liam and Jacques's words. Stock still.

The president wrapped up his speech, to heavy applause. It seemed as though the number of parents had doubled during the short time after they were placed behind the curtain, from the amount of applause present, and it only compounded to make Apollo feel worse. _Whatever_. He thought, his jaw hardening and his mouth a tight flat line. _His work's more important than me, isn't it?_

More applause followed as the president presumably walked off the stage. A junior elected took the podium and mike from him instead, and announced, a little shakily to the present parents.

"I'm pleased to present to you, the graduating class of 2025!!"

If he had thought the applause was anything earlier, it was logic-defying now. Every pair of hands in the place was clapping so hard that had it been indoors, it would have literally brought the house down. Everyone, even the frail grandmothers with their withering hands were thumping them together wildly as the curtains rose and the entire graduating class was revealed, inch by slow inch. Apollo closed his eyes and swallowed the last of his tears, even as the curtains rise, opening them when the curtains finally reached eye level.

Pride, more than ever, swamped him.

Everyone there was clapping, even the professors, and everyone beamed from ear to ear. Sure, they weren't here for him, but they were here for ALL of them, and he felt better as he looked at the little gathering on the campus garden – insignificant to just about everyone else on Earth, but an irrevocable point of his life that signifies everything he ever wanted coming true. He raised his eyes and smiled shakily...

...And then those eyes zoned in on the man sitting at the back of the gathering, looking a little more frazzled, a little more tired than he usually was. But he was there, and he was THERE, and that was really all that mattered. He had showed up after all. Kristoph raised his head, tilting it up slightly because of Apollo's elevated position and smiled at him. A smile – not boastful, nor smug – but simply from delight. Apollo returned his gaze and smiled in return, an unshakable grin of his own as he clenched his fist to stopped himself from shouting something out from jubilation.

Kristoph noticed the stressed hands, and grinned at him.

It was a day for smiles.

* * *

_Four months before midnight_

Phoenix climbed the staircases of the building, huffing heavily as he walked upwards and upwards, aware that he was breathing in heavy dust every time he opened his mouth. The number at the wall peeked at him, before disappearing entirely under a caked layer of dust and cobwebs – eight. This was the floor then.

He trailed out of the stairs into the dingy, musty hallway that looked like it dated from sometime between the 1950's to the 1960's. Floral patterns on an verdant wall that had retained a yellow hue with age, challenged that glare, and he looked away, preferring to examine the doors of the floor instead. Most of the doors on the floor were opened, their wood faded with age and faded by termites, and they lead into apartments that were not much better. Yellow walls smiled back at his expressionless face, while some remained hidden behind by a stubborn wooden door that no one can open. No one lived in this derelict building anymore, except a few retired members of society on the ground floors – and no one lived this high up. You can never tell when it will collapse and you'll be nothing more than yesterday's news.

At the end of the hall, he found the rooms he were looking for. It was the only door that had showed signs of being used, not to mention it had a startling red mailbox embedded into the wall, it's only connection with the outside world. He knocked three times on the door and nearly died of suffocation from the falling dust.

"Who's that!?" A voice squeaked out from inside. "I'm not seeing anybody, so go away!"

"It's Phoenix Wright, Mr. Misham."

"W-Wright?" The voice squeaked again, but this time unmistakably more hysterical.

"Yeap, the man, in the flesh. That is, I would be if you obliged to open the door."

"Why are you here!?"

"I'm here for a little talk with you."

"I don't want to talk to you!" Subtle. Phoenix was torn between a scowl and an amused laugh. The man was as subtle as a trainwreck.

"Well, I want to. And you do kind of owe me a talk, don't you know?"

Drew Misham hesitated. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Buying stuff off you, for one."

He could hear the mind of the man going wheeze wheeze as it struggled to debate the merits of letting Phoenix in. The pros won in the end, and several locks clicked open. The door creaked heavily when it was dragged apart, like an old man that has seen too much and Phoenix put a foot in when Drew tried to close it back before Phoenix could enter.

"Ah-ah, you've said yes." He said no such thing, but Phoenix pushed open the door anyway, putting himself into the room – which looked hardly untouched since the last time he had been here, except perhaps a touch messier. Drew Misham stood awkwardly in front of him in a coat abused by paints.

Phoenix nodded at him, and sat himself in a chair. Drew Misham remained standing near the door, as though Phoenix was highly dangerous and he might need to run away screaming at the first provocation, while Vera, now a full grown young lady - a big difference since last he saw her - peeked out from behind a wall. He caught about half an eye before she disappeared again.

"A-Ah-hem. So what is it you want to buy?"

Phoenix looked at the amount of empty paint bottles lying forlornly on the floor. "Bad month?"

Drew swallowed. "If I say yes, will you buy a painting?"

"Uh, no." The man deflated. "But I did come here to get something from you."

He perked up. "What is it? Do you need a painting forged?"

"A painting...?" Phoenix shook his head, amused. "No, what I need is what you forged six years ago."

He turned pale and gulped. "I don't have it! The police took it away during the investigation, remember!?"

"Not the diary page." He frowned. "I need another forgery made."

"I'm not doing anymore forgeries!" He squeaked. Phoenix merely raised an aloof eyebrow at the painting sitting on the canvas, so obviously a forgery.

"I u-um, I we-well, I'm not doing anymore evidence forgeries."

"An admirable trait," Phoenix commented. "If only it came six years ago."

The man shrunk.

"Please stop reminding me of it."

"I'll stop reminding you of it, when I get my badge back which," He held up a bare hoodie collar. " I don't. Now, will you please forge me one? I swear I'll pay up."

Eventually anyway.

"I w-well. I'm not really sure, I mean the last time..."

"The victim of 'last time' is me, and I'm not exactly complaining now, am I? So will you?"

Drew deflated even more, until he seemed too small for his coat. "A-Alright," he mumbled.

"Good." Phoenix got up to leave.

"Huh? Wait, what do you need me to forge?"

He grinned at him. "Don't worry about it. I just want your word that you will do it, for now. When the times come that I need it, I may not have a long time to persuade you, so I want your promise first."

Drew seemed unsure as to how to respond, so he gave Phoenix his word that he would forge it – or rather, have Vera forge it – when the time comes. Phoenix nodded, and left to dig out more information on Kristoph Gavin's ever expanding list of crimes.

* * *

_One month before midnight._

Apollo fell into a comfortable routine after his graduation with both Liam and Jacques, now his inseparable friends, they resided in Apollo and Kristoph's house while they studied and pulled all-nighters to cram three years worth of law into, as they say ' their fingertips.' Jacques considered that the stupidest phrase he ever heard, and all three could be heard cursing deep into the night when they realized they still had X chapters of tax law to go. Not that Kristoph was much of a help to their plight, as all he ever did when he was loitering around the house was to regal them with stories of where lawyers who failed the bar exam go.

After three months of studying, they sat for the bar exam, all three of them. They all took it on the same day and at the same place, and Apollo had somehow, through a miracle he didn't care to delve into, managed to do his exam without having a breakdown right there and then. By the time he left the examination hall for the last day, he was so convinced he had utterly botched his whole exam he threw up into the bushes outside the hall and had to be carted home by his friends and a belligerent Kristoph, who did not consider his stories as the reason at all.

Another month went by, and the letters came, printed in fine bold letters, telling them that they had all passed the bar exam, and was now on their way to becoming an honourable lawyer of any field they so choose. When he received his badge in recognition of his being a defense attorney, he had never felt more proud, and had shoved the badge, and the 29003 number engraved onto it into everyone's face. Jacques threatened to eat it if he doesn't cut it out, and Liam offered to polish it for him, and all was well. Jacques immediately jumped into the bandwagon labeled 'real estate law' in a decent firm downtown while still continuously residing in the Gavin household, while Liam got a job in the district's prosecutor office, to much amusement on Kristoph's behalf.

"He's going to become the next Payne, that one."

Liam heard the statement and became the next Edgeworth.

By March, Apollo was already deep in work in Kristoph's firm, and while he suspected he was nothing more than a glorified paralegal or an abused lawyer, he was content. He dealt with cases that Kristoph was too busy to do, and handed the papers at the end of the day to him to sign, as well as followed him around like Vongole during trials. Kristoph was amazing during trials, and he was starting to see what all the sputzah about him was, as well as a depressive feeling sometimes that he would never turn out to be as great as Kristoph.

Still, it wasn't a bad time – working with Kristoph and on weekends, running around like a maniac when Kristoph had his eyed on an Ariardoney preview. Despite how calm and collected he was in the courtroom, Apollo realized that he was not above hitting and scratching when it comes to fighting his way into a debut of nail polish.

* * *

_One week before midnight_

Kazaf double checked and triple checked the list, then he double and triple checked the security camera, always zooming in on one particular face in the crowd - the face of a tanned man with a black beard in a white suit. He checked the list again, which he received from the custom's list. It ran a good couple of hundred names, listing down people with questionable backgrounds, or strangely dressed ones, or people who fit the picture he had given them under the cover of him being a wanted man.

The picture on his computer zoomed closer, and he examined the person's face. It definitely did look like Zak Gramarye, even though he looked like he had lost a few pounds and a couple of million kilograms worth of muscles. His skin was darker, but that face was almost – almost – unmistakably Zak Gramarye's.

"Ema!" He barked, poking a number on the phone. "Get up here right now, I've something for you to be scientific about."

"Huh? Sure! I'll be there in five minutes."

She was there less than a minute later, leaving a trail of snackoos behind her in her hurry to reach his 'scientific' object. He wheeled his chair deeper into his little nest and allowed some space for Ema to stand beside him. He tapped the screen of the computer and pointed at the man.

"I want you to match this guy's face," He handed her the picture of Zak Gramarye from his days in the troupe. "With this guy's. I think it's probably the same guy, but stranger things have happened than two men growing to look the same. God knows we have one in the country right now." He rolled his eyes at the poster of Klavier Gavin and his band, plastered against one side of the office's wall by a detective. The man looked like the splitting image of Kristoph Gavin.

"Oh," Ema looked unenthusiastically at her given assignment. "That's not really that scientific. Why can't you do it yourself?"

"I don't know really," Kazaf gave an exaggerated sigh, then took the bag of snackoos from her and started chewing. "But I think I'm busy."

* * *

_Six days before midnight_

Kazaf paced in front of the entrance to the forensics lab, agitated and aggressive to anyone who walked by him. He had screamed at the last man who had gotten in his way while he paced endlessly back and forth, and now all the officers are cuddled in a corner, staring at their mad hatter of a chief.

"So, what does it say, Ema?"

"Wait a second, jeez."

"I've waited 86400 seconds since yesterday. Does it really take so long to match a photo? That last time I did it, I could have _sworn _it only took about ten minutes."

"Well, I forgot to do it yesterday." Ema confessed from behind a computer where she was tapping rapidly, but not quick enough for Kazaf apparently, because a moment later, he pounced on her.

"Give me the damned computer." He shoved her out of her seat and she landed in an ungraceful heap on the floor.

"God, you're such a brat!" She yelled. He ignored her and started keying in commands into the computer rapidly. A minute later the results came out – a 99% match. An unheard of percentage – unless you're that person. Kazaf's finger froze on a button.

"Hey, you okay?" Ema peered at the boy, who had turned the colour of her coat. "You uh, don't look too good."

Kazaf looked at the result displayed on the screen and wondered momentarily - after his mind had done imagining the consequences of the man's arrival in the country - whether he should just delete the results, and pretend it never once existed, and tell Kristoph he doesn't know of Zak Gramarye's existence in the country.

If he told Kristoph that Zak was back, there would be hell to pay. At the very least, Kristoph would try to detain Zak, and that could mean a hell lot more paperwork for him when someone was arrested of the crime he committed. Hell, he didn't even want to explain to his sister that he had just caused a string of murders by blabbing on this man. He made his decision, closed his eyes, and put his finger down on delete.

He accidentally hit print screen.

Kazaf stared sullenly at the printer while it wheezed and rolled out a perfect copy of the picture and the 99% sprawled on the computer and decided that this must be fate – some things were inescapable after all. He believed in fate for the first time in his life, and found it was extremely handy to believe in fate when you wanted to be downright irresponsible – it gave you a sense of wellbeing, in the strictest sense, because it makes you feel protected and privileged, as though you are a martyr.

He grabbed the piece of paper, still wet from the ink newly sprayed on it and ran off to rat on Zak Gramarye.

* * *

_Four days before midnight_

"Phoenix, would you like to go out to dinner tonight?"

"Huh? What's the occasion?"

"Well, I figured I never really sat down and have a chat with you since I returned to L.A, and I found an unexpected window of free time today, so heck, why not?"

"Hmm, okay. Is that kid of yours with the strange hair coming?"

A chuckle. "You're one to talk about strange hair, Wright."

"Hey, I'm not the one with curled hair."

"Touché. Where there?"

"At the bar, I'm working there now – but there aren't 'ny customers. Come on over?"

"Alright."

Kristoph would stick to him like superglue, now that Zak Gramarye was back.

* * *

_Three days before midnight_

"I'm going to jaillllllllllllllllll" Kazaf moaned, flopping down on his bed.

"No, you're going to hell." Elizabeth snapped.

"Wow, harsh. How can you say that to your own little brother?"

"When you've done something as stupid as that? I can."

"Fine, fine," he muttered. "It's not like it's not salvageable. I can just station a million guys around them, or stuff them like a sardine into prison."

"You must realize that you are chief of police and not God, or king of the world right?" She said irritably.

He looked up at her suddenly, with an almost maniacal grin. "But don't you think it would be fun, Eli-zaa-beth? It would be interesting to see how the game plays out."

"You're sick."

"Maybe, but I'm sick and FUN."

His eyes glazed over as he contemplated how amusing it would be before the two adversaries finally brought each other down.

* * *

_Two days before midnight_

Zak Gramarye stepped into the the police department with his heart pounding like a horse's, but he worked up the courage anyway, to slide up to the counter and requested for a police officer. The receptionist for the police department's lobby looked at him disdainfully, and barked into her phone to order a detective out. A detective soon came out, a scruffy one in a dirty green jacket that looked like it hadn't been washed for years.

"I'm looking for a man named Phoenix Wright." He said.

* * *

_One day before midnight._

"Can we go shopping tomorrow, Kristoph? I need to get something for Liam's birthday."

"I'm sorry Apollo, I won't be able to shop tomorrow."

Apollo grumbled. "But you aren't ever free anymore these days. You're always in and out, in and out, doing God knows what."

Kristoph exhaled a deep sigh. "I'll go out with you on a shopping trip soon, alright?"

"How soon is soon? Because I still haven't gotten my Christmas present, and that 'soon' was four months ago."

"Soon, okay? Stop pressing me."

Apollo nodded. "Okay, swear."

"Yes, swear. Want a contract too?"

"Hey, be happy I didn't make you _pinky_ swear."

Apollo laughed uncontrollably at Kristoph's expression.

* * *

_Three hours before midnight_

Kristoph opened his eyes at the precise sounding of the nine chimes from the grandfather's clock in the corner of his living room. His eyes had been closed, and he had been counting the times it chimed as it was his only indication of the time – his eyes had been closed for the better part of the past few hours, only opening now and then to watch the ceiling, and then closing it again, to wait.

Nine chimes. Nine o'clock then.

He rose in an elegant motion that would have complimented Count Dracula himself well and picked up his coat, which had been lying on the arm of his adjacent chair for a couple of hours now, and felt cold to the touch. He swung it around and put it on, letting the chill bite into him – it made his mind work better. He took a tentative step forward, as if checking his motor skills were still functioning after three hours of leaning his head back on the chair and letting the blood rush into his head. He stumbled. Blinked. Once. Twice. Yes, he was functioning.

What was it that Klavier would say? Ah yes, all systems go.

He leaned down to scratch Vongole's ear, and then headed off to meet Phoenix Wright for dinner.

Dinner with Phoenix wasn't as unpleasant as he had expected – au contraire, he was actually pleasant company for the night, though if he was entirely truthful with himself, he would rather be out shopping with Apollo, than to be here, sticking to this man in the vain hope that Zak Gramarye would walk through the door. Kristoph exchanged anecdotes with Phoenix and discussed the law system, and swapped stories – but all the while his brain was moving at a faster pace than he was exhibiting.

He knew he had to stop Zak Gramarye from talking to Phoenix, or at the very least, control the damage. Phoenix had too much access to the other witnesses and key players in the little game, with the exception perhaps of Apollo – but even Apollo he now knew, and he had all the pieces to a seven-year-old puzzle – one that he had no wish for him to solve. He was sceptical as to whether Phoenix would be able to figure it out – he wasn't exactly the brightest bulb around – but he was no man's fool, and he couldn't risk something like that.

That didn't solve the question of what he was going to have to do about Zak Gramarye though. Kill him, he supposed. That was the only way he could keep him from ever speaking out against him – but he was reluctant to dirty his hands once again._ Peace has made you soft,_ he admonished himself._ But then what's wrong with that?_ And it was true. Every time he contemplated a crime these days, he only had to remember his promise to Apollo that he wouldn't do anything underhanded of any sort, and he would shut the blasphemous thought out of his head. And now he would probably have to kill again, not to mention haphazardly too, since it wasn't like he could set an appointment with him.

That thought kept him occupied all night.

An hour later, even he, ever the charming socialite had run out of topics to converse with with Wright. So he begged his leave, dust off his coat – which he swore was freezing up – and was simply glad that he had taken gloves with him – though it hadn't been worn with cold combat in mind. He begged his leave, and strolled out of the place.

And that was when he saw him – Zak Gramarye, as changed as every word of Kazaf's – yet still recognizable him. He was walking pass him, determined to greet Wright. How could he ever forget the man who had turned him aside in favour of Wright as his attorney? The answer? Never.

He left the building.

Outside, Kristoph stood under a lamp post, situated beside his car, and shivered. He did not enter the car.

He had two choices now. Zak Gramarye was in there, talking to Phoenix Wright, at the end of which Phoenix would figure out god knows what. This was bad, and Kristoph's frost-bitten brain recognized as much. He would have to dispose of Zak, and if he could somehow maneuver it into his schedule – he would probably take out Phoenix too. That man is more trouble than he was worth – but how? Storming into the place was not the solution – and Kristoph was always more the sneaky bastard than the bull. Gosh, why hadn't he come prepared? All he had was a knife – enough to do the job – but what about an opening? He needed one before he could strike.

Then he remembered the hidden passageway, which Phoenix had so kindly told him of a couple of days ago. His hand curled into a fist - Well then, time to finish everything. He would finally be able to stop living in fear of one day be revealed to the world.

* * *

_Two hours to midnight _

Kristoph unlatched the metal door at the end of the passageway, praying that the sound made by the cold clanging metal would be too far away from the basement of the building to be heard. He was in luck, and the door came apart more easily than it would have been on hotter days, and he pushed himself into the dark and alas, smelly and musty. There wasn't a single light, any of it had long since gone without a trace - and he had to grope his way through the dark, not daring to illuminate the place with his cell phone.

He wandered around in the dark like that for almost half an hour, stumbling over unnamed things in the dark – before he finally reached the end of the tunnel, marked by a light layer of light filtering through whatever was obstructing the place. He heard muffled voices speaking on the other side, and wondered how he was going to do this. The knife? He reached for the knife, and his hand brushed against a bottle. He grabbed the handle and brought it up, weighing the filthy bottle against his hand. It was heavy enough to put out a man, properly wielded of course.

"Showdown time" He heard a voice saying. The place reminded him of the incident at the fire escape and made him claustrophobic.

There was a movement. Then someone stood up, knocking a chair over. "You dirty cheat!"

"Check his pockets, now!"

Who was being accused of cheating? Kristoph wondered, momentarily stunned. It couldn't be Phoenix cheating, since he had already won for seven straight years without having to rely on cheating, apparently.

"It's gone! The card's gone!"

He recognized the voice of Phoenix, chuckling. "You lose."

"Y-You! Some master of cheating you turn out to be!"

Silence, then a moment later, it was pierced by a sudden scream. Kristoph froze, wondering what had happened to merit such a scream. It was probably the dealer, since it was a feminine voice. He flexed his shoulders, ready to make a run for it or attack if he was spotted.

Phoenix shouted. "What...Why did you do that!?" There was an agitated scuffle before he spoke again. "Wait here, I'll get help."

Then footsteps, leading away from the little room in the basement, which Kristoph presumed to be Phoenix's. Zak Gramarye was left in the little room alone. Alone that is, but for Kristoph and his silent breathing, only a metre away from him.

His hand curled into a fist once more, but this time it was around the bottle.

* * *

_One hour before midnight_

Kazaf watched dispassionately as the police gathered around the Borscht Bowl Club along with strutting officers that harboured a strange idea of being in a B-grade police movie by barking orders into phones as they marched between cars in an agitated manner, illuminated by the red light of the siren as it rotated itself, shining on the force with an equity admired by children and detested by politicians.

"How's it going, folks?" He mumbled from above his muffler, which he had wrapped around his face like a middle-eastern woman.

"We've apprehended the suspect, sir."

"Oh, really? Who's it?"

"It's the pianist sir, who works in this bar. We found him with a dead body and an unconscious woman."

"Ah, I see." Kazaf rubbed his hands together. "Okay, stuff him into a box. I'll get someone on the case tomorrow."

"Yes, sir!" The policeman saluted him and hurried off to join his colleagues. Kazaf did not. Instead, he resumed his earlier position, his eyes watching like a hawk at a particular spot on the back of the building, to which he had a full view from the street adjacent to it due to it being on lower ground.

A moment later, what he suspected was true. The metal slided apart, making a soft, metallic noise, and a man walked out, relatively unperturbed by the police forces milling around the area. Kazaf smirked in admiration – the man was either fearless or very stupid. He wouldn't bet his money on Kristoph having an IQ below his.

"Is there something wrong, sir?"

He looked aside, and saw a policeman headed towards him. "I thought I heard a bang here."

Kazaf looked back at the blonde man, who, for the first time he knew him, exhibited real fear in his eyes. He paused to smile at him, like a hawk who has seen it's prey, and turned to the policeman.

"No, it must have been something from the inside. God knows they can be so careless sometimes. Let's go in and see if they've smashed something up." He walked up to meet the man, then looped a hand around him as best as his short stature permitted, and went off to put Phoenix Wright into jail.

* * *

_Minutes to midnight._

Kristoph returned to his home dirty and smelling like someone's sewers, and he threw his coat into the thrash bin with absolute confidence that it was unusable. He took a shower to wash himself clean, and then emerged almost half an hour later in a clean white shirt. He felt like he had been drowning in grim forever, and even a shower couldn't stop his skin from wrinkling. He drank a little wine to calm his fraying nerves, and tentatively took a step into Apollo's room. Darkness greeted him, and he could hear Apollo snoring lightly. The boy was developing bad habits, he smiled to himself.

Apollo, always the considerably lighter sleeper woke up with a yawn.

"Kristoph?"

"Mhmm?"

"What're you doing up so late? Don't you—_"_ He yawned_ "_-- have work tomorrow? You'll be sleepy during work tomorrow, and get dark eye circles."

"Maybe," he answered noncommittally.

"Go to sleep Kristoph, you've got a long day ahead of yo...." He trailed off sleepily.

"Euu." He managed to grunt out, and went back to snoring. Kristoph answered by sidling up to him and kissing him softly on the forehead.

Outside, the same grandfather clock that had announced nine o'clock, chimed twelve times, announcing midnight.

It was now the 20th of April.

* * *

Note : Yes, AJAA starts the first trial at 20th April. And... I'm so tired. This is probably tired of me and my long-windedness too. I'm sorry if you're tired – i'm just a bad planner with words. Oh look! I can't even spell properly anymore. And yes. I'm starting to get too-perfect vibes from my Kazaf. Time to brat him up a little xD

Court will reconvene tomo-zzzz...


	14. XIV : Roll of dice : Part One, Deal

Okay, let's start with the usuals – Apologies, lots and lots of apologies. Now, why isn't that surprising? Well, to tell the truth, up until now I've been working on my fanfiction while at the cyber cafe/LAN but I've went out and bought my own laptop. So now my updates will be EVEN faster! If I'm not too busy playing online games that is.

Note : I've had a LOT of trouble trying to figure out exactly how I'm going to do this chapter – and for once, I found myself actually planning as to how I'm going to write this. It's very simple. Consider the phrase, 'if things were different, then things would be different.' Apollo in my story is the adopted son of Kristoph. The Apollo of Capcom is his apprentice – and a rather cold one at that. I mean, his mentor was put into jail and his reaction is like 'Gee, I lost my job.' I mean, what the heck. ._. And the whole trial is already set in stone by Capcom, and it seems ridiculous to just re-type the whole thing. I would have written a script if I wanted to copy and paste it. Not to mention there would be glaring contradictions – like my Apollo doesn't even know about it until like, two hours before the trial, so why would he get up at 5 to do voice training? Also, why would Kristoph greet him when they arrive together?

Conclusion : I must AU and edit and butcher the wondrous script of Apollo Justice into an Au. The end. (Also, I will edit some of the trial's proceedings into reflecting a little more on Apollo. Kristoph seems to steal too much of the limelight.)

* * *

_Fairytales aren't forever._

***

_XIV : Roll of Dice_

**Part one : Deal**

The place was cold.

It wasn't just the kind of physical cold that you feel when you crank up the air-conditional to maximum. It wasn't the kind of cold that you get when you walk out of the house in the middle of winter, sporting nothing but your favourite pair of underpants. It was the kind of cold that went far further than just the shallow scratches of the physical being; it was deep – chilling you to your marrow and burning you from inside out – with it's sheer will. It rang in your footsteps, and when you put down a foot, you hear the clang of it's clarity. The cement floor sneers at you, echoing that very same step with an iron will, and you find yourself dogged at every turn by a iron and steel – whose chill was far greater and far more forbidding – from both sides of the hallway. The steel formed long lines with military precision to mark the boundaries between sinner and worse, and Kristoph found himself walking on the side of the so called saints.

His footsteps followed after those of the security guard as he led him down a winding set of pathways. The hallway they took was caught between two rows of cells, and Kristoph could see the faint figures of the prisoners in the detention centers outlined by the moonlight. Some snore gently, while some lay propped up against their lone pillow, staring out at the tiny window longingly. They peered curiously as Kristoph walked by them, wondering – what crime did THAT one commit? Seems like a respectable sort of chap – but you never know any more these days.

Down more pathways. The guard whistled gently – some tune that he heard Apollo singing just the other day.

"You his friend, or sumthin'? Coming down here in the dead of the night to visit the guy." He offered by way of friendly conversation.

"M-hmm." Kristoph gave a delicate shrug, noncommittal. "You could say he is."

He offered no more words, but the guard seemed determined to forge on. There weren't very many people for him to talk to, being the only guard on duty at night.

"You must have real good buddies in the higher ups though – not many people get admitted this time of the night. Most folks just get turned on their tail, set to come back tomorrow, ya know?"

Kristoph did not 'know', per se – but what he did know that as far as the powerful was concerned, there was no such thing as a curfew, especially not for their lowly hosts. If you had the right sort of connection, why, you could have a hole drilled right into the side of the jail and no one would so much as bat an eyelash.

He decided to indulge the guard – he may need him for something yet. "Not really, I just happen to have worked for Devereux's sister, that's all."

"Devereux?" The guard queried, alarmed. "You mean, chief Devereux?"

"Yes," he replied pleasantly.

"O-oh, I see." The guard mumbled a hasty reply, and conversation ceased. They proceeded along the hallway in awkward silence – which suit Kristoph just fine. Sometimes simpletons simply talk too much for their own good.

"He's right here," They reached the end of Block C's main hallway, where most of the cells were unoccupied. At the second last door, the guard took out a ring of keys, burdened heavily by a few dozen keys. He fumbled with the keys, examining each key against the weak fluorescent light before finally discovering the eluding object. "Ah, there it is," he announced, self-satisfied.

_Finally_, Kristoph bit out mentally, not without venom. _Took you long enough to find a pair of keys – I wonder how long it would take you to find your brain?_

The door to that particular cell was stuck shut. The guard pounded on it once. Twice, and it gave way, swinging apart.

"Well, I'll leave you to that." He tipped his hat and wandered down back from whence he came. Kristoph on the other hand, took a tentative step into the confines of the cell. One lone man sat on the only bed there, propped up against a pillow like his fellow criminals Kristoph had encountered earlier. Or rather, the accused, he mused. Surely the people who walked freely outside these cells are a dozen degrees worse in their pedigree than their residents.

"...The wicked in his pride persecutes the poor; let them be caught in the plots which they have devised. For the wicked boasts of his heart's desire; he blesses the greedy and renounces the Lord..."

Phoenix ignored Kristoph when he stepped into the cell, showing no more interest in him than he would a fledgling worm, reading a tiny book with his eyes closed.

"He sits in the lurking places of the villages; in the secret places he murders the innocent; his eyes are secretly fixed on the helpless. He lies in wait secretly, as a lion in his den; he lies in wait to catch the poor; he catches the poor when he draws him into his net. So he crouches, he lies low, that he may fall by his strength."

Kristoph smiled. "It seems you have found religion, Wright."

Phoenix looked up from the small book he held and angled towards the lone window in an attempt to get more light onto the book. "Not really," he threw the book to the opposite side of the room, where it sank neatly into the sink. "They just don't give you much else to read around here and besides – it...Makes for an interesting read."

He grinned at Kristoph, who raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Hoping that the man on a cloud will swoop down in one shot to save your case?"

"Nah, I think I'm plenty lucky with miracles already without the help of a God. Ghosts are much more useful."

Both examined the shaft of moonlight that intruded into the cell, and illuminated the bumps on the floor. The bumps glare back at them, shameless on the cement floor.

"So, have they taken you in for questioning?"

"Kind of," Phoenix got up and leaned against the metal bed -rame. "If you can call what they were doing interrogation at all."

"Ah, lemme guess. All they did was come up to you and tell you to confess?"

"Sure did," he pulled a face, mimicking their voices in a falsetto. " 'Why don't you 'fess up that you were the one who conked the guy on the head already? ' "

Kristoph chuckled. "And what case have they been making against you?" He pulled out a small notebook, filled to the brim with his neat, precise handwriting documenting all his cases - though lately there were Apollo's scribbles on it too.

"I've been charged with voluntary manslaughter, and if they can prove it – I'm going to guess second degree murder too."

"And can they prove it?" Kristoph surreptitiously murmured, his pen making scratching sounds as it scrawled the accusation across the paper.

"I don't think they can prove _I _did it." Kristoph ignored the slight inflection on the word 'I'. There had been a time once perhaps that he would have quaked at the suspicion of Phoenix – but that time was not now. Phoenix was behind bars, or well, close enough anyway – and he was free. He had everything that life had to offer, and Phoenix had none. Ergo, the victor would be...?

"Have there been any witnesses stepping forth?"

"Not any reliable ones. But I'm going to guess the dealer will become one – though she was out cold at the time of the murder."

"So in a nutshell, you and dead guy were the only ones there?"

Phoenix nodded with a bored look. Kristoph tapped the pencil lightly on his lip. "Oh dear, that doesn't sound good." More scrawling. "Did they tell you who's prosecuting this case?"

"Payne."

Kristoph raised an astonished eyebrow. "My, Payne, is it? They couldn't find a better prosecutor to put the legend into jail ?"

"I think it's the other way 'round," Phoenix grinned.

"Ah, they're so confident of their case that they would put even Payne on it?"

"My guess would be that." He reached up to his head and tugged his beanie a little.

Kristoph chuckled. "Exactly how many pieces of evidence you left behind?"

"From what they're making it sound like," He grinned. "It seems I signed my name on the man's forehead or something."

"Tsk, tsk. Trust the ace attorney to come up with an ace botched crime." They chuckled, the way criminals did around a round of booze, before Phoenix added.

"Oh yes, and one more thing. The prosecutor might change to vonKarma. It's been a short notice, since the trial starts in about..." He peered at Kristoph's watch. "...6 hours. If she can make it, she sure as hell will prosecute the case. The lady's been looking for a chance to shoot me in the head ever since I got myself disbarred and she can't trounce me in court."

"I see," That went into the notebook too. "Anything else you can tell me?"

"I don't think so."

"Who's the dead guy anyway?"

"Dunno. Random guy who wanted a piece of the poker legend."

"And they thought you killed him...Why?" he asked, putting on an incredulous face.

"Just a guess – they probably think I lost and went berserk and give him an uppercut with a bottle."

"And did you?"

"I never lose, Kristoph." Phoenix flashed him an enigmatic smile, with confidence he would never have had when Kristoph had first met him years earlier. The smile grated on Kristoph's nerves.

_Well, there's a first for everything _– he thought with uncharacteristic savagery - _And anyway, you just did._

"Very well," He snapped the notebook shut firmly with one hand and pocketed his pen. "If that''s all, I believe I will need to make headway of this case."

A page fell from the notebook, one filled with Apollo's doodles of what he deemed lawyer-like hairstyles – in horrible crayons.

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. "And it would seem your long-lost artistic talents."

Kristoph gave him a pleasant smile.

"Goodbye, Phoenix. See you in court – later."

He turned on his heels, and stashed the notebook into the briefcase he brought and with a click of his heels, got himself read to leav-

"Wait, Kristoph."

He turned back to face the man. " Yes?"

"I forgot to mention. For this case, I want Apollo to be the acting attorney."

Kristoph stared at him coldly. What game was he playing at now? To request a completely inexperienced lawyer to head his case... "He has no court experience."

"So didn't I when I won my first case," Phoenix shot back.

"He can't possibly handle a murder case for his first trial." He explained through tightly gritted teeth. "It's way too much for him to do on his own."

Not to mention far too stressful for the kid. It wasn't like the boy was known for his laid back personality anyway. He would probably stressed his way into a heart attack halfway through the trial.

Phoenix flashed another one of his enigmatic grins at him. "I dunno, give the kid a chance – I have this feeling he'll turn out more than you expected."

Kristoph stopped to glare at the man – suddenly wishing that this wasn't the detention center and he had another of those handy bottles Wright so loved. He should have gone for his head too, last night.

"Enjoy your time in prison then," He smiled at him pleasantly. "Oh, and the death penalty too."

And then he left, wishing for all the world that he had thought to bring a gun and leaving a smiling Phoenix behind.

* * *

"_Trucy?"_

"_Yes, daddy?"_

"_I need you to go meet someone for me. Can you do that?"_

"_Sure, leave it to me!"_

"_Right, so what I need is...."_

"_Mhmm..."_

"_And then, tell him that..."_

"_Okay. I got it."_

"_That's a good girl – go get 'em, Trucy."_

"_Of course! You'll come home soon though, right?"_

"_Yes...And perhaps sooner than most would think."_

* * *

**[I think it's 7:00]**

Apollo's eyelashes fluttered, even as his brain registered briefly that something, or someone, thought it was seven in the morning. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes and managed to pry one apart long enough to register that the room was dark, and dawn had hardly broken into the room before closing it again. Why was he up that early anyway? Work didn't start until nine in the Gavin firm, and he sure as hell wasn't going to be the first one to wake up – Kristoph would make him do breakfast.

He closed his eyes and tried to get some shut-eye before he had to climb up to get ready for work. Soft breathing sounded close to him.

He opened the eyes again, this time a fraction wider and noted that his arm felt cramp – as if something heavy had been pressed onto it for a long time. Tilting his head stiffly, he saw the cause – Kristoph had his head on one of Apollo's arm, and was sound asleep, chest moving slightly in tempo with his breath and his hair falling forwards on the bed.

Apollo smiled slightly at the sight. He told him he needed to work till late night. It can't be good for his skin.

"Hey, Kristoph," He mumbled. Apollo would have moved his arm to wake him up, but he felt like a murderer at the thought of waking Kristoph up – sleep was the only time the man ever looked at peace.

But he had to wake up anyway – Apollo's hand was fast becoming numb. "Come on, sleepyhead. Wake up."

Kristoph made a sleepy sound deep in his throat, like a purr of a cat. He rubbed his head slightly on his arm in acknowledgment of his refusal to awaken. "Mmrfr."

Apollo bit a lip to resist the urge to laugh out loud at the sight of his mentor's sleeping habits. "Come on Kristoph – you have to get up. Didn't you say you had mountains of paperwork to do?"

No reaction. Apollo raised his other hand – which was, for some reason or perhaps a show of solidarity with his other arm – numb too, and pushed Kristoph lightly on the head.

"Come on, wakey wakey~" He sang.

Kristoph grunted.

Apollo huffed in exasperation and tried to extract his hand from under Kristoph's head. No go, his hand was far to numb to be able to exhibit any real strength at all. Frustrated, he decided on a surefire way to get Kristoph to wake up :

"Gosh, Ariadoney just announced a clearance sale with 70 percent off everything!" He yelled at the top of his lungs.

The effect was almost comical – Kristoph's head shot up like a bullet.

"Where!?" He gasped, half awake.

The only answer he got was Apollo, rolling aside with his numb arm and howling at the top of his lungs in laughter.

* * *

The smell of coffee drifted in deliciously from the kitchen, and Apollo and Vongole followed it faithfully like crusaders to a banner with their noses. Kristoph was leaning against the counter, stirring a cup of coffee.

"Yours," He murmured, pointing at a cup of steaming coffee on the counter beside him. "And yours." He pointed at a doggie bowl filled to the brim with dog food. Vongole bounded over drowsily to his breakfast.

"Gosh," Apollo yawned, stretching both arms into the air. "I'm soooo sleepy."

"Do we have a lot to do today?" he asked, reaching for the cup and stirring the coffee Kristoph prepared.

"Not really," Kristoph took up the morning newspaper and started thumbing through it, flipping through the sections. "But if you're thinking of the sleeping in, then think again – because it's not happening."

He handed Apollo the funnies.

"Slave driver," Apollo made a face at him, accepting the section of the newspaper. He glanced around the kitchen. "Say, where's breakfast?"

"In the fridge, waiting for someone to cook it."

"You're not going to do it, are you?" Apollo shot the rhetorical question at him.

"No indeed. Bacon on the upper left compartment and eggs where they usually are. You can probably get a tomato in the freezer too."

"Why are the tomatoes in the freezer?"

"Because we ran out of space in the broccoli section."

And who was he to question such impeccable logic? Apollo sifted through the messy fridge and managed to salvage two bags of edible bacon and a few eggs, though admittedly already on the verge of spoiling.

He grimaced at the eggs. They looked soft – spoiled soft.

"We need groceries," he announced, looking suggestively at Kristoph – in a purely platonic and vegetable way, of course.

"I'm the breadwinner. " Kristoph retorted, deflecting the silent question. "I don't have to do something as mundane as buying groceries."

"Jeez." Apollo turned on the grill and flipped a couple of bacon stripes onto the sizzling panel. "I can't wait for the day my salary is higher than yours – I'll make you do all the groceries."

"Well worth the wait – if you like the spoiled milk I will buy you when the time comes." He stirred his coffee. "If it comes."

Apollo muttered under his breath. They listened to the sound of the meat and eggs sizzling against the steel and the random shuffling sounds Kristoph made while he flipped through the business sections. Apollo switched on the television while he waited for breakfast to be cooked to completion, and browsed through the channels until he found Spongebob.

Kristoph sniffed disdainfully at the yellow sponge. "A disgrace, if there was ever one."

"Hey, no slurs against Spongebob." Apollo flipped Kristoph's bacon and jabbed at it vehemently with a spatula to make his point. "And anyway, he's blonde – just like you, so why the venom?"

"Um, excuse me." He pointed at the singing sponge. "That is most assuredly not blonde."

Apollo smiled at the cooking breakfast. "It's entertaining."

"M-hmm," Sounds of objects being moved. Apollo turned around to see Kristoph moving the paperwork piled on the table around in search of something. "Have you seen my phone?"

"It's inside the fridge," Apollo answered nonchalantly with a shrug.

His head snapped to attention from where he had been examining his paperwork.

"Why is my phone in the fridge?"

"You were late last night," Apollo answered sweetly, flipping over an egg.

"And your idea of revenge is by putting my phone into the fridge?" He asked, incredulous.

Apollo smiled another impossibly sweet smile and flipped the bacon over. He prodded it with the spatula. Satisfied with it, he placed it and an egg on a plate and served it to Kristoph. "Breakfast is served, O master."

Kristoph ignored him and extracted his phone from the freezer – where it had accumulated a layer of frost. He placed it on the table before he got frostbitten by it. "My god, it's a miracle it still functions. I can't believe you stuffed my phone into the fridge," he muttered darkly at the chewing Apollo.  
"Teaches you to pay more attention to your darling son, doesn't it?"

"No, it teaches me to bring my phone with me wherever I go," he snapped. He took a cloth and wrapped it around his hand for thermal purposes and jabbed the buttons on the phone. It still worked, which was indeed a miracle worthy of the world record. Kristoph could see it now – Phone That Survived A Night In The Freezer. It'll make headlines, end quote.

He browsed through the voice mail and inbox. A few were from his colleagues from the firm. One was from a frazzled Apollo earlier yesterday, wanting to know where the chicken was. One was from Phoenix, shortly after their meeting, reminding him of the request, and one was from the court, telling him that--

"Damn," he swore.

"What's wrong?" Apollo chewed on a piece of bacon. _His_ bacon, if Kristoph was in the right frame of mind to have noticed.

"Bah. A trial was moved ahead. It was suppose to go ahead at twelve, now it's been moved to nine in the morning."

"Oh," Apollo glanced at the clock. "You still have two whole hours – what's the rush?"

Kristoph stared at the phone, his eyes zooming in on one word and one word alone. Nine. Nine o'clock.

How the hell was he going to get Apollo to the trial in two hours, fully prepared?

"Damn." He mumbled under his breath and looked up at Apollo, who was eying him curiously over his breakfast.

"I hope you're not going to tell me I won't get to enjoy breakfast after all." He stabbed at another slice of Kristoph's bacon – whose plate was now looking rather lonely. "Because it's your job, and I'm not doing it for you."

* * *

Kazaf picked up the phone.

"_Can I speak to Kazaf please?"_

"_Yes, the pizza order is canceled. We're not having pizza this early in the morning."_

"_Huh?"_

"_Hmm? What's with the confusion? And anyway - you guys suck, you keep putting capsicums in my pizza."_

Confused silence.

"_You're not from the pizza place?"_

"_No, I'm--"_

"_Oh. Then please call back when my eyes are more than a millimetre wide then. Bye."_

"_Wait!"_

Silence.

"_Um, hello?"_

"_Wait what? You told me to wait, so I'm waiting, ain't I? So what am I waiting for?"_

"_Oh um...This is really Kazaf Devereux right?"_

"_Yes. Maybe. I'm kind of fuzzy right now. Because, oh golly, look at the time it's like seven in the morning? So it's okay. Take a couple more lifetimes to tell me what you want, 'cuz I have as many as Mario."_

"_My daddy told me to call you."_

"_Huh." _He leaned forward a little_. "And which daddy would that be?"_

* * *

Kazaf walked into the basement of the Borscht Bowl Club and winced as the cold air assaulted him from the cramped quarters. They really needed to tone down the AC around here, he grumbled. The place was practically freezing – and some parts of the decor that were placed higher up had already acquire a thin sheet of ice on themselves, like an icy blanket that brought them no comfort, much less the person who touches it.

He extended a hand to poke the clock on the mantel-like object and immediately jerked it backwards. He waved it in an attempt to heat up the frostbitten appendage.

"This place shouldn't be called a Borscht Bowl Club, it's more like the Eskimo Escape," he huffed. He smoothed one hand over the side of the mantel and found what he wanted – the control panel for the AC. Two jabs later, the AC toned down. It had been on all night long – since the premise of a murder is generally not somewhere people wanted to be, no one had bothered turning it down.

He pulled his jumper a little lower and stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and stepped down into the Hydeout, weaving himself in and out of the yellow strips pulled across the area in a forbidding tangle. The end of the stairs found him staring at a thickly woven half-wall of banners and he swore. He pulled out a blade from underneath his jumper and sliced a couple out of the way, careful not to leave any sign of himself behind. Gloves covered his fingerprints, and a hat covered his head, with his hair tucked completely into it in case some of it fell onto the scene – not that it would be that strange in the first place to have the chief police's DNA on the spot – but he didn't want the existence of...Complications.

He arrived onto the scene where the victim, Zak Gramarye, - or rather Shadi Enigmar as was registered as in the file - had last been seated. Everything had been left exactly as it had been when the body had been found – not a single card or chip had been moved or taken, except for one or two to file away as evidence in a little plastic bag to be waved later in front of the judge's astonished nose.

Kazaf bent down and grabbed an empty bottle, tossing it from one hand to another. It felt heavy to him, but he wouldn't have been able to murder anyone using just the bottle. Kristoph must be surprisingly strong – or exceptionally determined. He placed the bottle back where he had found it, in the exact same position.

"Hey, mademoiselle!" He called back up the staircase as small footsteps echoed down the thin passageway. Trucy emerged a second later, cape and hat and all, behind him. He noted that she had gloves on, and nodded approvingly - though she probably wore it on a daily basis anyway. A moment later another figure appeared, this time a hunched back man with paint all over his jacket, looking exceptionally festive for the area with his multicoloured splotches.

"So," Kazaf gestured expansively at the scene. "Welcome to my domain. Mwahaha. Take a seat and have some chicken soup."

Two faces stared at him, and he discarded his weak attempt at humour.

"So exactly what do you need as reference to your little parade of mockery?"

The man shivered a little under his eye, his eyes darting aside. "I-I don't know! Don't ask me! I don't even want to come here!"

He turned his eye on the girl instead.

Trucy bit her lip. "I don't know. Daddy just told me to look for...Well, something. I'm not too sure either. He was kind of um...Vague."

"Golly," Kazaf rolled his eyes at them. "And he wants to forge some evidence. He's sending out pioneers who can't find a weakness if it was dressed in a flamingo suit and dancing in front of them. Not exactly conducive to proper forgery production."

He stared at the scene, then at the two helpless accomplices-to-be. None of his business if people were born stupid – he shrugged.

"I'm off. I promised him I'll get you two into the scene, and here you are – the scene." He slapped a hand Drew Misham had reached out to grab a particularly valuable looking piece of ornament and was on the verge of pocketing it. "Don't –" he snapped "– touch the scene please, especially with your un-gloved hands."

"You can see anything you want here, hell - you can touch it too – just don't do it without gloves and please...Don't make a mess. I'm not looking forward to telling my superiors that it wasn't actually intruders I let in – it was the Flying Spaghetti Monster."

He threw a pair of rubber gloves at Drew Misham and took out a phone, tapping into it just to illustrate exactly how busy he was. "Okay, that's about it." He snapped the phone back shut. "I'll leave you to a free rein of the place. The trial will start in a couple of hours, so you'll have about that amount of time to find something decent and make something decent."

Trucy sighed. "I don't even know what daddy means when he said to find the card the killer overlooked."

"Oh? He said that? How would he know what the killer overlooked? Unless he's the one of course."

"Don't say that!"

"I have a mouth - I can. So I will."

"Daddy would never kill someone!"

"Yeah? Someone else I know have a son who would probably say that too – and his dad's only a couple short of making the mass murderer quota. And 'sides. Why all the forging if you're innocent, anyway?" he pointed out.

"No way. Absolutely no way is daddy a murderer – it's sure as doves are doves!" She clenched her fists at him. "Keep saying that and I'll make you disappear."

He glared at her in return. "You really believe that?"

"Of course! Daddy isn't a murderer – and if he says there's going to be something here that will help here, there will be."

"We're all guilty of something – even it's not murder." He flipped a card over and examined the red back. "Your father is guilty of irritating persistence – and stubborn pride. You're guilty of naivety." He spun another card, one revealed a blue back. He stared at it, rather mystified himself.

He shook a head. "Alright. I'll be going now. Move quickly, in about one more hour the police will be here again to collect all necessary evidences and double check every nook and cranny to corroborate with the evidence they already have. If they find you here...Well, you're on your own. I have a job and I happen to like it."

The boy turned around to leave, striding towards the doorway. He poked a head in her direction as he left. "Oh, and Trucy? Tell your daddy to put on a good show later, won't you? I'm interested in seeing who's going to win this race of theirs."

* * *

The jailhouse had a limousine ready for the transport of Phoenix Wright – and it came in the form of a truck, the kind used for events of military persuasions. Phoenix Wright was not a convicted criminal, but he might as well be one, for all the security around him. He was handcuffed, and dragged into the courthouse by a bailiff and two guards who wasted no time in treating him like a murderer, conviction, crime, or not. He made no sound of protest, except to smile enigmatically at the curious passerby. He was thrust into the defendant's lobby no.3, along with another guard to await the arrival of his attorney and the start of the trial and there he sat, rather unperturbed for one who stood such a good chance of having himself admitted into deathrow.

***

Kazaf watched all these happening from beside the pathway leading into the courthouse with searching eyes as he swept the area to and fro in search of...Something. He didn't know what exactly, but the sun was bright, and it felt like such an important day to a person should not feel so normal. There should be exceptional thunderstorms or a scorching sun – not this neutral weather that could be exchanged for just about every other day of the year. He watched as Phoenix disappeared into the courthouse solemnly, and then he himself entered the courthouse, taking another the road that winded into the courtroom. It was a longer path than the rest, and took him into many unnecessary detours – but it kept him from passing either the defendant's, the prosecutor's, or the witness's lobby – and that made a small measure of comfort in the boy.

***

His sister on the other hand, begged off, not wanting to arrive to see an old friend and a respected ex-lawyer tearing at each other – the exact opposite of Trucy Wright, who kept away from the courthouse out of necessity. She was busy at the Misham's apartment, trying valiantly to prove useful to her hosts and father, passing around the paint to the forger as he worked behind a closed door. She paced to and fro the room; to and fro, to and fro, but she couldn't shake off the nagging feeling of worry – worry that her father would be convicted of a crime he didn't commit and worry about that boy – Kazaf. Her father was sure that he had been helping Kristoph – so to ask him for a hand was their last desperate choice. If he could stab Kristoph in the back, what's to say he wouldn't bloody theirs? All it took was one word from him and everything her father had worked on all these years would go into the bin. That evil man who caused her first daddy to disappear would escape unscathed...

***

The man in question however, wasn't much in mood to be diabolical – he was pulling up his car beside the courthouse, and the car held roof to both him and Apollo – who was hyperventilating.

"I can't do this." He mumbled. "I really can't."

Kristoph ignored the boy and concentrated on the parking instead. He locked the gear, turned off the engine, and threw open the door.

"Let's go, Apollo," he snapped. The boy remained unconvinced, staring at the windshield with an expression of disbelief, his hands knotted into fists on his lap.

Kristoph snarled and cussed under his breath. He rounded to the other side of the car, opened the door, and dragged Apollo out. Clasping him tightly on both shoulders, he hissed at him through gritted teeth.

"You will listen to what I say, and you will listen closely."

Apollo blinked at him.

"I know this is your first trial. I know it's a murder trial – and I know it's hard for you to just accept that you will be defending Phoenix Wright –"

Apollo turned a shade of purple.

"--But." He shook him just to make his point. "You have to pull it together, alright? You're a lawyer. You passed the bar. You're as worthy of being an attorney as anyone you care to name – and this is what we do, we defend when we're asked to do so."

"But..I can't – I'll just get him thrown into jail! The great Phoenix Wright – in jail because of me!" He wailed.

Kristoph shook him again, and when he didn't respond, shook him harder. "Why did you study so hard, Apollo? Why did you work all the way into the night? What was it all for?"

"I don't know! I mean, I never imagined- I thought I'll just get something easy for my first trial like, I don't know – fraud or something!"

"There will be plenty of time for fraud later. But for now, you have to do this – and don't think of him as Phoenix Wright, or the great anything. Just think of him as a guy you've been hired to defend, and now his fate hinges on you."

Apollo took a deep breath. Several. In. Out. In. Out. The exact way Kristoph always does when he's burning mad. Then he managed a tremulous smile. "Gee, no pressure or anything."

Kristoph smiled back uncertainly at him. "Just...Be yourself. You're talented. You'll be fine."

Apollo nodded, though still a bit shaky. "Okay, but it's Chinese takeout tonight – I deserve it after all these."

His smile turning into a grin, and he gave Apollo a small push towards the courthouse. "Alright. Oily, unhealthy, chinese takeout it is. Now if you're done being nervous, let's go into the courthouse – because I'm bored of pep talk."

He nodded back at him, and together they headed into the building.

* * *

Chapter 14 will have to be cut into chunks, mainly because the whole chapter is more than 20 thousand words. And I don't think you'll appreciate a chapter that long.


	15. Part Two, Hit

Blood Dawn : Kazaf is actually already 17, though he's really short (like, barely scraping the five feet mark.) and he's stationed as the chief police because he used to be a cyber criminal and is good at forging and stealing stuff from other people. He was caught and made a deal with the FBI - he works for them, and in return, he gets out of jail. And anyway, age isn't a problem in AA anyway. I mean, look at Franziska - when was the last time you heard of a 13-year-old prosecutor?

* * *

f

**Part Two : Hit**

The district court's defendant lobby number three housed four men that particular morning, but Apollo only noticed one – Kristoph. He registered vaguely that there were two more standing at the corner of the room, but he was too busy hyperventilating to care very much about other people's presence. He only had eyes for his mentor - who was unbelievably calm, with arms folded and a mildly amused expression painted onto his face, walking a step ahead of him as they stepped into the courthouse.

No such luck with Apollo. His palms were sweaty. His knees weak. He could just about shout it out that he was nervous – not that anyone with an eye couldn't see that he was so. He was flexing his fingers in and out in an effort to restrain them from clenching into fists or poking dents into his palm. He exhaled and inhale – the way Kristoph did when he was mad. Exhaled. Inhaled. His hand quaked in answer to his breathing exercise.

_I can admit it. I'm nervous. Phwoeee._

Kristoph merely looked pointedly at his flexing hands. "You look tense, Apollo. Wound up tight – like a spring." he commented.

"W-Wound up, sir? No! I'm loose! I'm fine!" He expanded his hands and waved them around just to demonstrate his point.

Kristoph blinked at him. "That screeching noise...Is that your voice? I suppose it's to be expected. Your first trial ever, and you draw the murder ballot." He tilted his head and smiled at him. "I guess 'Justice' doesn't start small, hmm?"

"It's okay! I've practiced for countless hours for this moment! My 'Chords of Steel' is well honed! There's no way I can lose!"

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?" He smiled at Apollo. "Volume isn't the only way to win a trial you know – you have to actually have something to say with it. Blindly shouting will not get you anywhere."

"But lawyers always shout," Apollo protested. "They can make no sense, as long as they bang the table enough and shout louder, they win the trial – at least that's what it always looks like when I watch trials."

Kristoph raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever seen me shout in court, Apollo?"

"Um...Well, no. Except that time with the scary lady with the whip as prosecutor."

"Precisely, and I've won my share of them, I believe. You need not shout like...Ah, here he comes." Kristoph stepped backwards a little, and pushed Apollo forward with a finger. "Go on, that's your client for today."

Apollo gulped, twisting his fingers into the thick bundle of paperwork Kristoph had handed him earlier as he pointed his head this way and that. He saw nothing. No sign of a spiky-haired man in a blue suit. There was no one in the lobby except Kristoph and him and –

"You!!" He shouted, pointing an accusing finger at one of the men standing listlessly in a corner of the room whom he had just noticed. "You're that stalker from the theater!"

The man in question stepped forward into better light – looking exactly as Apollo remembered him, gray hoodie and blue beanie with the strange brooch pinned onto it, masking a mass of unruly hair peeking out from underneath the cap.

"Ah, it's the horny guy with the hair gel." he commented. "Good morning." His hands were rooted firmly in his pockets, and were not offered for a handshake - not that Apollo would have shook them either way.

"What's THIS guy doing here?" He glanced over at Kristoph, who didn't look remotely shaken. "Please don't tell me he's a bailiff or something, because I won't believe it – this guy doesn't look like he even BELONGS in the courtroom."

The man in question merely looked bored, not commenting on the insult.

"Well, yes," Kristoph pushed up his glasses. "He doesn't come into the courtroom very often, except apparently, as a defendant."

Apollo didn't even bother to wipe the questioning look off his face.. "Why is he in this lobby? Shouldn't he be in another courtroom? I thought our client was--" His mouth snapped shut at the train of thought. He opened it, and tried to form some words, then shut it again. Apollo's eyes fairly bulged out a little at the thought of his admired hero – in a hoodie and beanie! Surely that was impossible? There was no way his blue-suited hero, who almost rival Kristoph in his respect would turn out like...This! Disbarment or not! There was absolutely no way!

"He's not..._Him_ is he?" He blurted out in a half gasp, hoping someone would stand up and shout "Nein!" at him. No one answered him.

"Oh, I'm afraid I'm not Him," The man answered.

Apollo breathed a sigh of relief.

"God-hood isn't something I can aspire to, at least."

Apollo blinked at him.

"Please don't tease him, Phoenix. You know people don't have senses of humour when they're nervous." Kristoph chided with a sigh at the man. He merely laughed, shoulders shaking lightly.

"Y-You mean, he's really...?"

"Yes, Justice. That's Phoenix Wright, formerly attorney of some renown."

"Ah, the good old days," Phoenix(?) commented jovially. "It's one of the reasons why I look forward to being a defendant today – it'll make good on nostalgia, at least."

Apollo's mouth opened and shut like a fish. "He's really THE Phoenix Wright? Not just some kind of same name coincidence?"

"No, Apollo," Kristoph sighed. The man – Apollo still couldn't quite get his head around the fact that he was Phoenix Wright – perked up at the comment.

"You guys are on first name basis?"

Kristoph looked sharply at him. "He's my apprentice." he answered, a touch defensively. "It's not abnormal that we are on first name basis now, is it?"

He checked his watch. "Now then, don't you think we should be moving?" He snapped his fingers at the bailiff, the fourth man in the corner and the both of them entered the courtroom.

"Come along, Justice." He called out. The doors opened to admit them into the courtroom, which was still empty – the students from the nearby law school wouldn't drop in to watch the trials until a little later, and the judge was, as usual, late. Doors swung close, and Apollo was left alone with Phoenix.

"Ah, um..."

_Oh God. One cardiac arrest, coming right up!_

He shuffled his feet around, scratching on the tiled floor, as though it may yield some gem of conversation yet. The smart thing to do would have been to escape after Mr. Gavin, who even at the worst of moods would be better company than well, silence. From the attorney he worshipped, no less. He scratched harder on the floor with his foot, determined to polish it until it told him what to do.

"So um...Why did you ask for me to act on your behalf? I mean, Mr. Gavin is way more experienced, and his your friend! I think. You guys get together for dinner sometimes, don't you?" A safe topic of conversation – stick to business. He repeated the oft-repeated mantra in the Gavin firm to himself.

"Well. Yes." Phoenix stared at a spot behind his shoulder. "But you'll see. Why, that is."

"Shortly too," he added, after a moment's consideration. He reached out a hand to pat Apollo on the shoulder – smile playing on his lips, so slight that you wouldn't have noticed if you eyes had been anywhere but on his face - a gesture meant for comfort, but all it did was make Apollo even more nervous. "You can do it. Be confident."

"Um..." What does a person say to a defendant charged with murder? Sucks to be you? "I'm so sorry this happened to you." He decided on, at last.

"Don't worry." Phoenix flashed him an enigmatic smile. "This might just be the best thing that happened to me this past seven years. Don't worry about it, kid – you'll have much better things to worry about soon." He pulled down his beanie, and with another smile, strode off after Kristoph, leaving Apollo to ponder the wisdom of his words.

* * *

The judge was the last to enter the court that day – a fact that many, if not everyone would forget. Apollo would come to remember it though, and he would record faithfully every single moment of the trial in his little red journal. If someone had asked him a year later to recall the precise shade of the judge's robe that day – he would be able to able to pinpoint the exact shade – a miracle of happenstance that he would never understand fully.

Courtroom number two was the chosen courtroom for the day, and Apollo entered the courtroom with a feeling almost akin to calm. It was the evidence of how nervous he truly was that he felt almost calm – like the eye of a storm - and he walked in ahead of Kristoph as the acting attorney with a sort of demeanour bordering on confidence. A tremor or two down his spine betrayed his inexperience, but to the casual observer, they would have thought that the attorney knew what he was doing.

Everyone shuffled solemnly into the court – the court was a place for people to be solemn, and all conversations ceased the moment they entered the courtroom. Kristoph and Apollo took the defense's bench, and Kristoph immediately settled behind his desk.

"How can you be so calm?" Apollo hissed silently at him, leaning in a little towards his mentor. "I'm practically on a nervous breakdown here."

Kristoph smiled teasingly at him. "Maybe you should have spiked your hair taller than – gives you a sense of importance when you're taller, don't you know?"

"Stop joking, Kristoph! I'm on the verge of collapse here."

"I can see," he murmured. He patted Apollo lightly on his head, like he was Vongole. "Don't worry about it – if things come to the worst, I'll take over. He can hardly fire me in the middle of the trial."

"Okay." Apollo made a wheezing sort of sound that sounded like it was between a gasp and a groan. "Promise?"

"Pinky swear." Kristoph grinned.

"Ugh, you--"

A loud pounding of wood against wood brought their attentions up, towards the judge. The gavel was pounded. Once, twice, and all the people in the court, including the ones on the stand stood up in respect. A few students of the law drifted in from the still-open doors and took their places on the benches, placed high up above the defense and the prosecution's seats.

"The court is now in session." The judge announced, and the doors were slammed shut by two security guards. Winston Payne – a short, balding man designated as Apollo's adversary stood on the opposition's bench.

"The prosecution is ready, Your Honour."

Okay. He didn't look that tough. He looked kind of well...Pathetic actually. Like a man who had spent far too many hours being stepped on by people. He could do this, Apollo chanted to himself. He could do this.

"There's such a thing as thinking aloud, Apollo – and you're doing it." Kristoph whispered. The judge nodded at the prosecution and turned on Apollo instead. Expectant silence in the court told him he was suppose to be saying something. That, accompanied with the glare of the judge and Kristoph, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what he was suppose to do.

"Um...Help?" He half-turned towards Kristoph.

"Opening statement. Just repeat what he said. Surely you can remember that?" Kristoph hissed back, under his breath.

"Oh, of course! The prosecution is ready, Your Honour!" He called out.

More silence – this time of the awkward kind.

"What he means, Your Honour – is that the defense is ready. Slip of tongue." An apologetic smile on Apollo's behalf from Kristoph. He nodded at the rest of the court, and they nodded back at him – A bond was established on the grounds of Apollo's clumsiness, and the slight was forgiven, simple as that.

"Your name is...Mr. Justice?" The judge peered at him from his seat. "And this is your first trial?"

"Yes! Yes, Your Honour. And I'm fine!"

"Are you quite sure? Your voice sound a bit...Strained."

Apollo coughed in answer.

The judge looked towards Kristoph for the answer instead.

"Is there something of the matter, Your Honour?" he inquired.

"I was under the impression that you would be the attorney responsible for the undertaking of this case?"

"That was my intention. However, a client's wish is first and foremost to a defense attorney. In this case...The defendant has stated quite..Forcefully that he wishes for Justice to undertake this case, and I will cede to that request."

The judge blinked, as though he couldn't quite comprehend why anyone would pass up Kristoph as an attorney for a rookie one. "Well, of course he wants justice! But to put his fate in the hands of a rookie...Why? I do not exaggerate when I say you're the best defense attorney in town, Mr. Gavin."

Kristoph simply smiled in answer, and Apollo scowled at the table.

Okay, so fine. Kristoph had more experience. Excuse him for existing then. And anyway! He could shout louder than Kristoph anytime of the day.

Another pound of the gavel, and the people on the stand stirred awake to watch the trial. Through the left passageway leading into the stands, Apollo spied a short boy walking into the stands and plopping down into a bench, holding a stick of cotton candy. He spotted Apollo staring and the little midget grinned sweetly at him, licking his fluffy pink sweet.

"Bring the accused into the court, bailiff!"

A flurry of activity as the bailiff led Phoenix Wright into the courtroom. The doors leading to the room designated to prepare the defendant was opened, and Phoenix was led into the defendant's seat. The cuffs that they had snapped onto him while he was being prepared for the trial – oaths and all that – were taken off by a guard. No signs of recognition from the crowd was visible, though Apollo wasn't surprised. He wouldn't have – and still didn't really – believe it either, that this man would be the famous attorney.

The judge held up a piece of paperwork and examined it. "To think..." He mumbled solemnly, as though in a eulogy. "This is a truly unfortunate turn of events. I'm sorry we had to meet again under these circumstances...Mr. Wright."

"Don't be." Phoenix smiled up at the judge. "It may prove do be a joie de vivre yet. Piano players have to make the best of life after all – or they would all be permanently gloomy from their own music. The past is merely that – the past – we don't have to speak of it."

The judge nodded, acceding to his wish to stay silent on the subject. A few on the stand looked incredulous at the mention of the name, and pointed in disbelief. Some shook their heads, and Apollo felt like shaking his head in unison with them. How had it come to this? That they hero of the law school would come to be hailed as a common and coarse criminal instead?

"And what is the prosecution charging the defendant with?"

Winston Payne straightened himself. "We, the prosecution, representing the state, is accusing Mr. Phoenix Wright of one count of assault, one count of voluntary manslaughter, as well as second-degree murder. We are also considering the charges of posession of paraphernalia, and...."

Apollo leaned forward and rolled up his sleeves, both elbows leaning into the table. Beside him, Kristoph's face assumed a predatory sneer – his way of preparing for the court.

It would be a long battle yet.

* * *

Vera Misham traced the line of the forgery's lineart firmly onto another sheet of paper. This time, she had a bottle of black paint beside her – a new bottle completely untainted by green splotches like the earlier one. She grimaced at the little piece of card abandoned at the side of her table – ruined by a single green splotch. Her artist's pride rebel at the sight of the forlorn piece of ruined evidence that had taken her the better part of an hour to finish.

"Is...Is she sure that her father wants a drop of blood on it?" She asked her father. She pointed at a blade sitting at the end of an adjoining table, and he handed it to her.

"Yes. I think so."

"Did he um, said where he wanted it?"

"I don't know. The girl only told me it has to be a few drops only."

"Oh no..." She chewed her lip. "I'm not so sure...How to do this..."

"We have to try our best – I um...Owe him for something."

"Of course, papa." Then she said no more, bending down with a frown creasing her forehead as she attempted a perfect duplication – and to create those drops of blood on it. Drew stood behind her, watching the clock on the wall ticked slowly, wondering how the man was doing in trial and if they were going to make it in time for it to be useful in the trial at all.

* * *

"The prosecution moves to imply that the defendant is begging silent on the matter of the murder because he was the one who did it!"

"Objection!" Kristoph voice was nowhere near a shout, but it carried the same authority, nonetheless. "I would like to remind the court that the defendant was the one who reported the crime to the police. If he is, as Mr. Payne suggests, the culprit – the simple question pops to mind immediately, wantingan answer – Why didn't he simply flee the scene?"

The judge eyes widened. Clearly, he hadn't read the case file thoroughly, or as thoroughly as necessary anyway.

"Really!?" he exclaimed.

Payne bit a lip and agreed reluctantly. "The defendant made the call near the scene."

" 'Near' the scene?"

"Yes well...The scene of the murder is the basement, which is almost two floors below the surface. Cell phones don't get reception from that low below the ground so..." He shuffled through his file until he got the correct paperwork. "He made the report to the police on the first floor of the building."

Kristoph nodded approvingly at the statement. "That's right. This man could have fled the scene – criminal or not, it is all our intends to avoid trouble with the force, yet he reported the murder to the police. He fulfilled his right as a citizen!"

"Yeah! The defendant is an example of a model citizen and yet you call him uncooperative?" Apollo added.

Payne gagged.

Kristoph smiled like a shark that had smelt blood.

"I believe that the prosecution has spent enough time toying with our client."

"Toying!? I assure you, this is a straightforward cross-examination to-"

"To what? I see no results being yielded. The court," He pointed at a court reporter seated under the judge's bench. "- has a limited amount of time, , and not all of us have so little to do that we are happy to spend the day sitting in the courtroom, meandering about nothing."

"If the prosecution has nothing new to add to the case, then I motion that our trial be brought to an end on the grounds of lack of evidence." Apollo repeated the words he had heard Kristoph said in court countless times before. The judge nodded.

"Now wait just a second!" Payne yelled. "I happen to have a witness right here!"

No one in the room was convinced.

" A decisive witness!" He added. " To prove that Phoenix Wright, the defendant, was indeed in the room at the time of the murder!"

The judge nodded again, this time at the prosecution's bench. "Very well. The prosecution may call it's first witness – just make sure it's a reliable one this time, Mr. Payne. I needn't remind you of the mess the last witness you called created! Bailiff!"

Kristoph and Apollo watched as two men hurried into the witness' lobby to retrieve the witness in question.

"Are you ready, Apollo? Everything up till now has been nothing but a warm up act."

Apollo gulped, but managed a tremulous smile. "Well, if everything else is gonna be like that – I might survive just yet."

"That's the spirit. It isn't that hard."

The door reopened, and their the battle resumed.

* * *

Kazaf watched sullenly as the little twerp in the pirate outfit emerged from the witness lobby – not that anyone else other than him knew about the pirate outfit just yet. He flipped through the report Gumshoe handed him and landed on the page with the witnesses' information.

Olivia Ovilia, Californian by birth. Occupation? Dealer at Las Vegas. Beside it was pasted a picture of her at the casino she used to work in, sporting a colourful bandana and a black vest like a waitress' uniform He thumbed through the section containing the reports of the witness – her, as well as other sections on the prosecution and defense, and the registered witnesses on each side.

Apparently she had been fired for her fondness of taking pictures of customers in the casino – a big no-no, he had heard, and was now advertising herself off as a master of cheating. He threw the report aside and went back to his cotton candy.

This trial is so boring. He chewed on his cotton candy, which had since the start of the trial diminished in size into a much smaller version. Everything was still in the realm of predictable – he was still waiting for the 'miracles' Phoenix Wright was so famous of. He had managed to pull those off while he was the defense – but could he still pull it off as the defendant? He bit onto the stick, and he knew it was high time to throw it away. He did this by dropping it down onto the courtroom stand's floor. A bailiff – the one who had tried to stop him from entering earlier – until he pointed out that there was no rule that said only adults were allowed in court – noticed and stomped over.

"Excuse me, little boy. But I'm going to have to ask you to pick that up." The bailiff leered over him.

"Bite me," he commented pleasantly and proceeded to ignore the bailiff. The crowd roared, heavily discussing something, and he returned his attention to the court. Olga Orly, or whatever the name she registered herself as, had produced a picture – and judging from the sensational response, one of the victim.

"Order, order!" The judge banged his gavel a couple of times. Volume reduced, the trial continue. Kristoph said something. Payne screeched a response. Apollo shouted right back at him

On and on and on. When was this ever going to end? He pointedly ignore the bailiff demanding his attention.

_On the witness stand, my darling~_

Kazaf winced at the song. The Gavinners, was it? He would never get used to their music. Whenever Elizabeth played it, he felt like he was losing his lunch – a disgrace to the police force, a champion of the ridiculous, if there was ever one, though he had to admit that Klavier Gavin looked good being ridiculous.

_On the witness stand, he stands~_

Kazaf paused for a moment to glare at his neighbours, who in turn, glared back at him. Heads swiveled slightly sideways in search of the criminal who was intruding on the peace of the courtroom with that disgraceful music. Kazaf hitched up his glare a knot at his neighbour – whom he was absolutely convinced was the one producing that atrocious noise when he realized that –

"Damn" He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. Sure enough, it was ringing – his sister must have had changed the ring tone to her favourite band. With a sheepish smile at his neighbour – whose glare had turned into a furious smirk - he got up from the stands and left the courtroom.

* * *

"The man flew at the victim, strangling him to death!"

The voice drifted down from the witness stand, and Apollo stood to counter it.

"Hold it!" He yelled slamming a fist onto the table."That's impossible, Mr. Wright would never do such a thing!"

The judge blinked. "And you back this up with...?"

It was Apollo's turn to blink at him.

Beside him, Kristoph closed his eyes, as though he was in pain. He reached a hand down to pinch one of Apollo's arm. "If possible...Please...Refrain from embarrassing me."

Apollo bit his lip sheepishly, and when no one was looking, elbowed him. "You're suppose to be coaching me, not mocking me!"

"I would say that you're a little beyond coaching, Apollo, if that's the best argument you can come up with." He took up a thick file from the filed evidence and passed it over to Apollo. "Learn to pay attention – sometimes it's best to say less - that way your words will pack more of a punch.

Apollo nodded at him and returned his attention to the case at hand.

"But why would the defendant do something like that?" The judge exclaimed.

"Perhaps...It is because he lost the game, dah?"

"Yes, that's right!" Payne seized the opportunity to go in for the kill. "He must have flew at him in a rage – a crushing defeat for the man undefeated. Why, winners make the best sore losers!"

Apollo smirked back at him, crossing his arms in an imitation of Kristoph. "Then that must mean you're not a sore loser, Mr. Payne, because you never seem to win!"

Kristoph smiled approvingly, and he forged on, encouraged. He held up the file Kristoph just handed him for the benefit of the people in the court stands – though they couldn't see the exact thing clearly. He took out the autopsy report, and tapped the brown envelope on the table.

"I have here...The autopsy report." He flashed the envelope towards the stands too, to give them a better view of the report. "Now, the defense will address Ms. Orly's statement again. 'Strangling him to death,' was it?"

She mumbled under her breath in agreement.

"Indeed." Kristoph stood up beside him. "But it would seem that according to the report - He died of a blow to the head – trauma and haemorrhaging! Now how did that come to happen?"

Apollo slammed the envelope down onto his desk. "Explain yourself!"

On the witness stand, Olga Orly shrunk even lower and Apollo recognized that stance – it was the stand of a defeated testimony, like Kristoph always called it. They went it for the kill.

"Now..I can only comment on how different it looks between hitting someone in the head and strangling him to death..." Apollo commented.

Kristoph followed up on him.. "And yet, somehow you have manage to get something as simple as that wrong. Unless your eyesight is as awful as your testimony, we can only conclude..."

"That you didn't witness the crime at all!"

She screamed, and borscht flew everywhere. A splatter splashed onto Kristoph's suit and he grimaced.

"This trial is costing me more than I'm earning," he snapped irritably.

Bailiffs, the hands of the court rushed forward to calm the witness down, and Apollo examined the red spot on his suit. "Really? How much are you making from it?"

"Nothing. Pro Bono trial."

"Ah. And how much does that suit cost? I'm going to guess you'll chuck it now that it's stained?"

"Well, three thousand."

Apollo stared at the suit in incredulity, and Kristoph smirked at him.

"I can sell it to you for 500 bucks, if you want."

"Not unless I get a fiver every time this witness lies – in which case I can afford a dozen of your suits."

Kristoph smirked at his cheeky response and they returned to their attack on the witness' flimsy testimony.

* * *

Kazaf paced irritably in the witnesses lobby, back and forth, back and forth. A bailiff walked out of the courtroom, and when the door opened momentarily, sound sifted out from Inside the courtroom. There was a loud voice shouting – and Kazaf guessed it to be that dim witted apprentice of Kristoph – and the spectators' heated conversation.

"Chips...worth..."

A couple of words drifted out from the confines of the room, but he ignored it. He sat on the bench for the witnesses. Then he stood up. Then he sat down.

"Damned women, always making people wait," he growled. There wasn't a clock in the lobby, since it WAS a courthouse after all, and there were many lawyers here – and it's never a good idea to put a clock in the vicinity of a busy lawyer, they may just suffer a heart attack. He tapped his foot on the ground and briefly considered simply going back into the courtroom – this was a trial he had woke up early just to attend, not to mention he had to forge a sick leave to come waltzing in – since he wasn't directly connected to this case. And here he was, sitting in the lobby, waiting for that little girl to arrive, instead of doing something more productive, like say,

He growled again and this time, he got up to reenter the room when a tiny figure swept into the room – sporting the trademarked silk cape and hat.

"Well, hello there, latecomer! How's it going on planet I'm-Late?"

"Oh, Kazaf?" She commented, a little breathless from running.

"Obviously. Oh wait, maybe I'm actually your granddad and I'm making a late comeback to visit you. Why would anyone else conceivably wait in the witnesses' lobby?" He spat out.

She considered this question seriously. "Well, they would if they're witnesses?"

He winced at the unexpectedly logical conclusion. What are they feeding children these days?

"So...What did you tell me to come here for? I assume that this is important?" he asked quickly, to divert attention from his thwarted inquiry.

"Of course! It's about..." She looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping into the conversation. "The evidence is late. Mr. Misham said he'll send it over when it's done and told me to head to the courthouse first – but it's almost eleven already – and he's still not here!"

He pursed his lips in irritation."So? What, someone invented a forgery deadline now? So what if it's late? The trial's not even over yet!"

"B-but! What if it comes in too late to help the trial!?"

"Uh. Nothing? Seriously. Kristoph Gavin will get your dad a Get-out-of-jail card - trust me on this one."

"No he won't," she insisted angrily. "He's the reason he's on the witnesses' stand in the first place!"

"Yes. But if Kristoph wanted your dad implicated with the crime – he'll do worse than defend him. After all, what has he to gain by losing the case deliberately and thrashing his own reputation? If he's smart he would have just left your father to the police's defense attorney – God knows I would." He decided that telling her that the acting attorney had been replaced with the greenhorn apprentice of Kristoph Gavin would not be healthy for his disposition.

"But..." She stared down on the ground. "Daddy said..That he's the reason my first daddy went away..."

"Maybe. But I don't see how forging is going to help get Phoenix off the hook. Kristoph will do the job for him – unless he goes off and do one of those 'turnabout' things he's always going on about and pisses the guy off."

Trucy only pulled another worried face. "But I don't want him to...I mean, there's always a chance he'll make daddy go to jail too, isn't there? If I lose him too, I won't be able to pay the bills!"

Kazaf raised an eyebrow.

"You can't...Rent an apartment until you're legally and adult." She grinned sheepishly.

"Ah, the future magician to-be has a few tricks up her sleeves." He tapped a feet on the ground and pondered his foot. He's been tapping his feet a little too often lately – if he doesn't watch it, it'll turn into a habit, or worse – a nervous habit.

"Okay," he finally said. "I might as well go and get it for you – now, before the trial heats up and I can't afford to leave."

She nodded, and smiled at him appreciatively. "Thanks a lot, Kazaf – Daddy was right, you'll be a great help after all."

He merely smirked at her.

"Yes, indeed. That's what I am – help. A hole to fill in the plots of the story. A maid to run around doing things no one else wants to do."

He took out his phone and started tapping into his appointment sections. That was becoming a habit too. "Alright, Mishams, was it? I'll go get it."

"Okay, thanks again! Oh, and how are you going to get there? Because walking is way too slow, it's at least three dozen blocks down – and that's the main reason I can't get it myself."

"Don't worry about it – I have my ah...Modes of transport. Fringe benefits of being a chief police and all that. Just remember that in payment..." He leaned forward to smirk at her. "I'll want front seat tickets for your own magic show someday."

She grinned at him. "Of course! Oh, and I can help you make anything you don't want disappear too!"

"You can start on your father's beanie – that thing's as ugly as they come."

* * *

Apollo's head was bent down over the evidence, wrapped neatly in a plastic bag and sealed to prevent whatever corrosion they had thought possible to affect a set of cards. The courtroom had, by now, resumed the state courtrooms usually were in – that of disquiet. The visitors on the stands were uninterested with the examination until it yielded results, and had taken to conversing with each other vocally while Kristoph tapped a foot to the tempo of the rise and fall in the speech's volume.

"Hey, look at this!" Apollo exclaimed, digging a nail into Kristoph's side to get his attention and he winced – apparently he hadn't been the best mentor of manners to the boy.

"Hmm? What is it? And digging into peoples' ribs is rude, Apollo."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Look at this!" He held up the victim's set of cards, laminated into their original positions and preserved in aforementioned plastic bags. "One of the cards is blue!"

Kristoph merely took the offered plastic bag and examined it himself. Sure enough – one card stood out carelessly amongst the red card. Had someone been cheating during the game...? But wait...That would be ridiculous! Who on Earth would cheat by using a different colour card in a game of poker where people could see well enough what colour your cards are..? Unless...

Kristoph turned a shade paler – Apollo was too excited to notice though, shaking the bag up and down in a happy jig.

"Well, don't keep us waiting! What did you find?" The judge interrupted, and Apollo held up the anomaly he found and explained it to the people present. Meanwhile the gears in Kristoph's head started whirling. He must have replaced the card with a wrong coloured card last night. The moment he had heard that there were two decks of cards being used that night – he had feared the worst : A mistake, and here it was, in glorious technicolour, no less. He must have taken the wrong colour from the cards scattered on the floor – _damn damn damn!_

He looked up, jaw clenched, just in time to see the man in the defendant's seat staring at him curiously. When he caught Kristoph staring back at him – he smiled, not one of his enigmatic smile, but a wolfish one, like a shark that had smelt a bleeding foot and wasn't about to let it go once he's bitten it. He was halfway across the room, but Kristoph could see it when he opened his mouth and mouthed the words at him anyway.

_Jig's up._

He pushed his glasses up and turned his attention back to the trial. No matter – one small mistake like that pointed to no one, least of all him – who no one has seen there except for Wright and that boy, Kazaf – who would never speak up against him unless the state paid him by millions. He looked up in time to catch a wift of conversation.

"But I put that card in Wright's hand..." She mumbled quietly. Quietly, but not enough to escape the notice of Apollo, whose hair fairly pricked up at her words.

"What was that...Ms. Orly?"

"Speak up now, it's ill manners to mumble," Ah...Perhaps he could make something of this yet. Kristoph smiled at her. "Or shall I simply do you a favour and repeat that you confessed to slipping a card into the game?"

She gulped, knuckles whitening as her fingers tightened around the handles of the beloved pot of borscht.

"No...I mean, nyet! I was o-only.."

Kristoph ignored her, simply addressing the judge with a determined expression. "Your honour?"

"M-Mr. Gavin, yes?"

He switched his tone to a pleasantly languid sort to calm the intimidated judge. "Tell me, what's the best way to cheat in a game of poker?"

"Well, don't ask me! I don't know!" He squinted bad eyes at him. "You're not implying that I'm a cheater in poker are you, Mr. Gavin? Because that's worthy of a penalty in itself – doubting the judge!"

He shook his head. "I do not – but I digress – I'll tell the court instead." He turned around to address the prosecution's bench and in consequence – the stand set behind the prosecution's bench – from where he noticed, Kazaf had disappeared from. Irksome child.

"One merely needs a "friend". A comrade, shall we say..." He paused to let it sink in. " And what would make the best comrade?"

"Of course!" Apollo exclaimed. "The dealer!"

"Ah!" It had never occurred to the judge, and he gapped at Kristoph. "Wait, so you mean..."

Apollo nodded, along with Kristoph. "She's the cheater."

"A real professional, I would wager."

Uproar, loud and boisterous filled the courtroom at the latest revelation and the judge banged his gavel repeatedly to calm the attending people down. Apollo took the chance to step backward and made a wild timeout gesture at Kristoph. Kristoph obliged by stepping down from the elevated area directly behind the defense's bench.

"Is that true, Kristoph? Her being a cheater I mean."

"It's the only logical answer," He replied. "And...you made the point while being unsure?"

Apollo rubbed his hair, and he smiled at him. "I suppose it's to be expected – bluffing seems to be the rule of the day."

"Hmm?" Apollo found the statement enigmatic – and he knew that in Kristoph's case, enigmatic usually meant illegal things working in the backdrop.

"What-"

"Order!! Order!!" The judge shouted at the top of his lungs. The crowd ignored him, intent on a heated debate over Ms. Orly and the their assertion. "I say, order!"

Kristoph smiled at Apollo, diverting the subject. "Why don't you give him a hand, Apollo?"

Apollo grinned, nodded and clear his throat.

"_ORDER!!_"

Silence was immediate as the crowd fell into complete, stunned silence. Several heads swiveled to search for the person responsible for their hearing damages and a few shot a glare at Apollo – and he blushed.

"Uh-hum!" The judge cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mr. Justice. Now where were we?"

Apollo stepped up to explained himself – time for him to take advantage of the situation while the prosecution was still flabbergasted. Move in for the kill! Just like how Kristoph's always taught him!

He positively snarled when he addressed the court. "What we have heard, Your Honour...Is proof incontrovertible that our witness...Is a co-conspirator!" He pointed at Olga Orly – so that there would be absolutely zero doubt who he was accusing. "Not only that – she cheated, and she cheated poorly! Therefore, there rises a possibility we must address..."

Kristoph rose too. "The simple question that started this trial – who murdered Shadi Smith?"

"And that question can be answered!" Apollo slammed his fist onto the table and leaned forward for the kill. "By asking ourselves this – Is it so hard to imagine an altercation between our witness and the victim!?"

"What!? Now wait just a second!"

"Wait...The defense- you're not seriously considering..."

"That's right...The defense is formally accusing the witness, Olga Orly as the real culprit!"

Pandemonium returned – and this time the opposing benches were not excluded.

"No! That's impossible!" Payne yelled. "The lady can't possibly be strong enough--"

"Oh yes, she can!" Kristoph snarled viciously. "As the prosecution as pointed out earlier – that bottle is heavy and solid – fatally so! And might I add it doesn't take much to swing a bottle?"

"Yeah! Even Mr. Payne over there can do it!"

"Back up young man – I won't allow slurs against the prosecution in my court--"

"Oh you want to play that game eh, rookie!? Why don't you come over here and I'll brain you with this bottle right here!?"

"That's enough! Penalty!"

"No it's not! The prosecution will address the possibility of the culprit being her – stranger things have happened!"

"Impossible! Look at the state of the young lady – now if it was YOU in question --"

"OH NO YOU DON'T! YOU CAN'T ACCUSE MR. GAVIN --"

"-- or maybe I take it back! He's too much of a wuss to brain anyone!"

"Perhaps you would like to see me try, prosecutor?"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" The judge roared. Everyone turned to look at him, noticing for the first time that the witness – Olga Orly, had been carted out in an unconscious state, having hit the floor in a dead faint earlier. "I won't allow any monkey business in my court!"

"You two!" He pointed his gavel at Kristoph and Payne. "You two should know better! This isn't the first time you're in the court – you should know how trials are conducted – and it's NOT by shouting like barbarians at each other! And the greenhorn!" He narrowed his eyes menacingly at Apollo. "If that's how you're going to act – I suggest you return to law school!"

Kristoph bit back an acidic retort, swallowing the first comment that came to mind – which would earn him an immediate status of contempt of court.

"Of course, your honour. I apologize formally for the misdemeanours of my colleague and I." He bit out in even tones.

"You better! A penalty to both sides!" He banged the gavel. "Now..."

He looked at both sides of the bench. "Mr. Justice, was it? He has presented a viable explanation for the murder of Shadi Smith – and much as it pains me to say this; we cannot proceed on this account until more information is gathered. The court cannot pronounce a verdict for the defendant at present time. Therefore, I suggest that the trial be reconvened at a later time, when this is possible. Does anyone object?"

He glared at both sides in a menacing way that left them in no doubt as to what his gavel would do to anyone daring to object.

Apollo leaned forward, bearing a smug victory smile. He did it! He managed to drag the trial on for another day – and maybe tomorrow Kristoph would be able to take back the helm – though he was secretly having too much fun to let go of it – but at least one more day meant more information – and Kristoph had uncanny ways of digging up information at short notices, a perk enjoyed by everyone in the Gavin firm. That would improve their chances by...30% at least, he decided.

"I see no point in delaying the trial any longer. The prosecution and defense will both look into the matter and trial will reconvene tomorrow at--"

"Objection!" A loud voice called out – one that proclaimed expert practice on the matter. All heads turned to find the culprit – and all eyes zoomed in on the man in the hoodie and beanie, face angled towards the judge.

"M-Mr. Wright.." Apollo gasped out beside Kristoph. He clenched his jaw, making no comment.

_What game are you playing at now, Wright?_

"You can't end the trial today...Your Honour." The man added. "Not yet."

"What nonsense is the defendant spewing now? I warn you – I have no more tolerance for your nonsense than I did from your attorney days!"

Phoenix ignored him, addressing the people in the court in general instead. "I remember you have quite a high tolerance for it, Your Honour. Now everyone..Think. One of the cards have a different coloured back. Don't you wonder what it means?"

It was Payne's turn to object. "What game are you playing at, Mr. Wright!? To object when you're about to walk free for another day...Ridiculous!"

The judge sniffed at Phoenix in disdain. "You of all people should know, Mr. Payne. Mr. Wright here has a talent...For the absolutely ridiculous! Perhaps we should let him demonstrate the extent of his excuses this time 'round."

"I object, Your Honour." Kristoph voiced. "To prolong the trial is meaningless – there isn't sufficient evidence for anything – better we put the time into things well spent, like actually gather evidence for the case."

"Well...Mr. Justice, you're the acting attorney." He turned towards the shorter attorney. "What do you think?"

Kristoph glared at Apollo in muted rage – disapproval of the idea radiated from him - and the boy gulped at him. His glare promised a world of pain to all dissenters. "Um...I think we should hear Mr. Wright out before deciding...?"

The judge nodded at Phoenix to proceed, and Kristoph let out an angry hiss at Apollo, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

"As I've said earlier...We alternated between two decks of card for the game that night. The two decks of card have different coloured backs. One red...And one blue. We used the red cards for our last game."

"Hmm..." The judge pondered this, stroking his beard. "I see! But for some reason, I had the impression the cards used were blue! I wonder why?"

"But to imply that a card was slipped in for the reason of cheating...Is ridiculous. Apollo?"

Apollo jumped at his name being called.

"Think..In the last game, when was the card swapped?"

"Um..." Apollo pressed a finger onto his head in concentration. He glanced over at Kristoph, but he was impassive, holding nothing but a slight smile on his lips as he always had – albeit with a tightly clenched jaw that almost threaten to break his own teeth. Payne though, was another story.

"Of course it was during the game – it's stupid to even suggest --"

"Oh? I don't think so. And I didn't ask you either, Payne. Why don't I think so, Apollo?"

_Figure it out yourself, dammit!_

"I think it's...After the murder." Apollo's eyes glazed over as he considered this, then they became firmer. "Yeah, definitely after the murder."

"That's ridiculous!" Payne yelled. "What's the point of cheating after the murder? After all the cards were shown?"

"Tell me, Mr. Payne – How do you swap cards like that during the game? I'll take 'ridiculous' over completely impossible!"

"Take it from the experienced, kid! There are many things that are silly in the world, but very little impossible!"

"Oh yeah? Why don't you take a look at the cards yourself, then Mr. Payne – and tell me how you would cheat like that during the game."

Payne fumbled for the evidence bag.

"Colour..." Kristoph said softly.

"What was that, Mr. Gavin?" The judge called out.

"Colour." He stated, more firmly. "It is impossible to cheat like that during the game. The colour will expose you in a second – kind of pointless to cheat in the first place, don't you think?"

"That's right..." Phoenix nodded. "Which means that the card...Has to be swapped after the murder.

"Objection!" Payne screeched. "I think I will need to add something to my list of impossibles, Mr. Wright...And that is you! You're impossibly crazy!"

When no one spoke up to contradict him, he continued.

" I ask again, what would be the point of cheating after the game? That defeats the entire purpose of cheating!"

"That's one of the mysteries we have to answer." Phoenix smiled at him. " The question would be...Who? Who swapped the red card for the blue card?"

"The game is over, the murder done. Only two people remain in the room – Olga Orly, our witness and...You, Mr. Wright." Kristoph stated. "Take your pick, Wright – you can choose whoever you think is guilty of this little misdemeanour of yours.

"Yes...And who do you think was the one who did it, Apollo?" He deliberately ignored Kristoph and spoke only to Apollo. Apollo gulped and darted his eyes at Kristoph, but once again, he offered no visible reaction – much less aid.

"Well..." He sifted through paperwork and held onto one, even though it offered no new information, the smell of paperwork comforted him, and he scowled at it to try and make sense of all of it. He spoke while he reasoned, explaining to the both the court and himself. "It's impossible that it's Olga Orly...Because I mean, she's the dealer, isn't she? Wouldn't she have known about the different coloured backs? Even if she was trying to cover up evidence of her role in the cheating, she wouldn't have made such an elementary mistake...And the same would apply to Mr. Wright so..."

He looked up. "It's someone else. It has to be."

"You're not making any sense, Justice. Think again." Kristoph stated simply, and the judge nodded with him. "I would pick Olga Orly out, personally."

Just the slightest hint of a threat in it.

"But- She's the dealer! She knows everything about the game! Why would she make a mistake like that?" Apollo glanced over at Kristoph curiously – normally Kristoph was always the first to sport contradictions like this – and the first to accept them. He couldn't fathom why he would try to deny logic as obvious as that.

The moment the words were spoken, Kristoph's eyes narrowed down on him and a little angry hiss escaped through his tightly gritted teeth.

"Urk. Well..." The judge leaned on his gavel, troubled.

"That's right...I assume we're all in agreement that it couldn't possibly be her...Or me?" Phoenix interjected.

"No! You're just trying to confuse- "

"Or perhaps it can be said that you swapped it to mislead the court," Kristoph suggested.

He ignored them both. "You'll find that whoever it was who swapped the card made two vital mistakes. The first – to swap the wrong coloured card into the set. The person did not know that there were two sets being used that night. The second – the person replaced the fifth ace with a king – which meant that he didn't know about the fifth ace either. Whoever swapped it only knew about the full house – and he replaced full house with full house."

"So they simply took a card from the floor...And replaced card with card."

"Yes, but there's only three people in the room that night! Our records don't show a fourth person!"

"There was another person there that night." He retorted.

The crowd burst into noise again, and in the midst of it, Kristoph spoke up.

"I believe the judge was right, Mr. Wright – you do make trials ridiculous, for want of a harsher word."

"It is merely because I can...Kristoph." He smiled back at him.

"Alright, alright, order!" Gavel slammed onto wood thrice, and the judge reopened his eyes, which had been close in concentration. "This trial has been conducted under the assumption that there were only three people in the room that night. This new revelation does bring new light to the matter!"

"Indeed." Phoenix commented mildly.

"The problem with it is that you keep concealing information from us!" The judge snapped, shaking an aggravated hammer at him. "Very well – I've decided! Court will adjourn for a brief recess to consider this new information. Mr. Gavin, I will like to see you in my chambers!"

"I object, Your Honour! He has no proof of a fourth person, and no one else has spoken of a fourth person – ergo, there IS no fourth person! I motion that the court reconvene tomorrow!" Kristoph scowled at Phoenix while he spoke. "The defendant is merely making up little lies that he imagines can help his case."

"My goodness, Mr. Gavin – to say that about your own client -"

"I speak nothing but the truth!"

"And I speak nothing but orders – and I ORDER that the court adjourn for a recess! Are we in mutual agreement!?"

A muscle twitched. "Of course...Your Honour."

"And you'll see me in my chambers in our recess – we need to discuss this new 'gung-ho' attitude of yours!"

"Certainly, Your Honour." Kristoph murmured meekly, the picture of compliance – but no one could mistake the angry light in Kristoph's eyes – least of all Phoenix. He lowered his head...And smirked.

The judge nodded severely at the court. The gavel fell again, and the contents of the courtroom spilled out, lawyers, accused, and murderers alike.

* * *

Note : Sorry about the anti-climatic chapter. Since Chapter 14 was originally one big chapter, this was just meant to supplement the drama to come - but since I chopped it up so...


	16. Part Three, Raise

**Part three : All in**

Kazaf was in pain, and pains are in Kazaf.

Some part of his mind that was still sane and not overloaded by pain receptors screaming and shrieking to receive his attention realized that that particular sentence was grammatically incorrect, and that pain cannot, as a technicality, be 'in' anyone because the cause of pain – mainly the pain receptors, have always been 'in' you. No, pain was actually a form of stimuli, that stimulates said receptors and cause great amounts of nerves be sent to the brain, thereby causing the sensation of 'pain', which is actually an illusion, in so far as an illusion is indeed an illusion and ah...

asfabfaugqwiu325896296%.

[Computing Error]

He opened one eye – the one that wasn't swollen shut and squinted at the sky above him, which mocked him in it's blinding brightness. He shut it almost immediately after he opened in and tried to move something other than his eye muscles instead. He wiggled an arm. No reaction – though it did sent a zing of pain into his brain – which meant that something must be threatening it. Or maybe something sliced off his arm entirely, and now he was nothing but a mass of organs waiting for the cloaked guy with the sickle to carry him off to the styx.

"Sir! Mr. Devereux sir!"

Kazaf answered with a high pitched groan he would normally be embarrassed by.

"Look at that arm! That's not good, pal!"

"Water." Kazaf croaked. His throat felt like it was burning from the inside out. A moment later, a deluge of water was poured onto his face and he spluttered. "Gumshoe...Idiota."

"Idiota? What's that sir?"

"Italian. Idiot."

"Oh, I see, sir!" There was a huge shuffle of movement, and something was moved off him – his arm felt a little better, though it still felt like something someone saw through like a science project. He opened his eye again and turned his neck over so that he could see his arm properly – and regretted it. The arm was an ugly red colour – like a huge link of bruises that papered his entire skin – and his arm was swollen like a red beetroot.

"Oh my god. I'm going to die. Oh my god." He looked at the arm again and started hyperventilating, making short bursting attempts at coherent speech. "Oh my god. It freaking hurts. Oh my God!"

"Um. I. Uh. Is there anything I can do to make that arm feel better, sir?"

"Yes! Get yourself a driver's license! Your driving skills suck! How many times have you crash your car already in this lifetime!?

"Only thrice sir, I swear!"

"Ugh, you..." He swung his other hand at Gumshoe, who, years of experience have finely honed into him the ability to dodge any incoming attacks. "Just...get me my sister please."

"I got you, pal!"

Gumshoe wandered off to retrieve his cell phone, and Kazaf struggled into a sitting position, noting that his arm was disgusting – in a way even a scientist would have doubts at gazing at it for long – and let's face it, he wasn't in any shape to be moving it any time soon. He struggled and crawled using his unharmed arm and his knees closer to the wreckage of the car left behind by Gumshoe's reckless driving. Pulling himself into a higher position, he stashed his free arm into the leftovers of the front seat – and thanked god that at least, while he may be crushed like a paper in a shredder, the little brown envelope and it's contents seemed unharmed – even if was slightly wrinkled.

He stretched his fingers a little and clipped it between two fingers and pulled it out with all his strength. The effort threw him backwards-and he fell onto the ground – exactly on his injured arm. A horrible sound that sounded between a squelch of a bug and something going into the blender. He screamed then - throat burning at the effort it took to contain the sound as he screamed. He felt like his hand had literally been put into a shredder, and if it wasn't broken earlier – it definitely was now.

A moment later Gumshoe came running, cellphone in hand – and he was still screaming.

"What happen-- sir!?"

Kazaf answered with more screaming.

"Gosh, that doesn't look good, pal!"

Kazaf's scream continued and only petered out a minute later, replaced by sobs instead as he was moved off his arm by Gumshoe. "Didn't I told you to stay there!?"

"I just...Wanted to get something!" he sobbed out, gritting his teeth at the pain when Gumshoe shifted his weight to the other side and leaning him against a piece of the wrecked iron.

"You can't just move around like that! That's what Maggey always says when I get injured!"

"Don't lope me into the same category as you, you-you-you car wrecker!" Unable to think of anything more grievous to hurl at the man, he resolved his anger by pinching Gumshoe with his free hand.

"Ow." Gumshoe rubbed his arm, but remained undeterred. When he was done wrapping Kazaf's arm around with his coat, and bounded it onto his shoulder like a makeshift sling – the way Maggey taught him, he took a step back and admired his handiwork.

Kazaf was not as admiring - he sighed. He stared at the little envelope he retrieved from the car and realized that even if he wasn't dead and the little card hasn't been blown up or crushed, there was no way he could get it to the courthouse in time now – not with his arm like that. As if it wasn't enough that Drew Misham took so long to forge the evidence, now he had to compound the trouble with his broken arm and oh yes, no transport. Guess Phoenix was just meant to be the underdog. Unless...

Did he really want to help Phoenix?

Not really, if he was to be honest.

He preferred throwing everything into the blender and pressing the red button with 'puree' written on it and see what sort of things happens. Or maybe he'll help him after all – not to mention that his daughter IS pretty cute, and he IS going through that little difficult period of life we call puberty...

"Hey, you, Sneakers. How fast can you run?"

"How fast can I run?"

"Yeah. Do you think you can run all the way to the courthouse and hand something to someone there in about...He checked the clock. Bloody hell. 11: 30. "I don't know. As soon as you can."

"But...It's almost halfway across the city! It took almost half an hour by car – it's gotta take an hour by foot, pal!"

"I know! Don't you think I'll do it myself if it wasn't hard?" He gritted his teeth. He hated asking favours. "I just need to get this sent to the courthouse for Phoenix Wright's trial – it's important."

"Phoenix Wright?" Gumshoe frowned at him. "That sounds familiar...Hey I know! I think it's a friend of that friend of mine, Harry Butz!"

Kazaf blinked at him. ...Wasn't he the one who had been associated with Wright? How could he not know him?

"Yeah, well, it's important. It's evidence for the trial."

Gumshoe's eyes positively sparkled at the statement. "You mean one of those save-the-day kinds?"

"Um...Yeah..." Except it would probably ruin the day for some people.

"Like, the kind that will save the day for the good guy?"

Kazaf hesitated. "Not really, the defense should be able to do it without this but..."

Then he blinked. Would he really? Kristoph? He's a murderer and a dishonest lawyer, but he had told Kazaf that he wouldn't implicate Phoenix yesterday night when he requested for Payne to be the prosecutor...A precaution, he had said. Was that really true though – or had that snake blindfolded even him? Was he being naive to believe that Kristoph would keep his word?

His fist curled into the dirt on the ground.

_You never know with that snake. _As he had told Trucy earlier, if her dad pissed him off, he would probably get him stuck into jail – for real - and knowing Wright and his talent for pissing people off...

"Yes." He nodded at Gumshoe determinedly. "It's one of those save-the-day kind, and it'll be needed there -urgently. Can you get it there fast enough? The trial shouldn't end just about yet...But you never know, so you have to be really fast, okay?"

"Of course, sir!" Gumshoe picked up the little brown envelope. "Who do I give it to?"

"A little girl – she'll be wearing a cape (those cloak kinda things, Gumshoe, like on superman ) and a hat. Just hand it over to her – untouched. Don't show up with a ruined piece of evidence, Gumshoe, or I'll be crossed. And tell her not to hand it to her father or anyone else unless things look really bad."

Gumshoe nodded. "Yes, sir! Hand it to superman looking girl, untouched and tell her not to use it unless it's really bad!"

"Good. Do it, and I'll promote you, though..." He gaze thoughtfully at his arm. "...Definitely not in the paramedic's department."

Gumshoe's eyes sparkled and tear up, and Kazaf gave him a soiled handkerchief, as well as directions towards the courthouse – just in case he managed to get himself lost, which was not an entirely impossible scenario.

"Okay, now go!" he yelled at him, slapping him on the leg from his disadvantageous position like a rider would his horse. Gumshoe didn't waste another moment, dashing down the road leading towards the courthouse at breakneck speed for the man. Kazaf watched the speed at which he took off and did a mental calculation. Okay. If he remained at that speed all the while to the courthouse, he should arrive in a little more than an hour.

He nodded appreciatively at his own handiwork. Wright better keep it in his head that he owed him for this – sheesh. Then he gaze at his throbbing arm...And realized something.

"Shit! I forgot to get him to call a paramedic!"

* * *

Kristoph's heel clicked onto the defendant's lobby at precisely two minutes pass 11:30, and Apollo trailed after him like a dejected puppy, complete with a hangdog expression.

"I cannot believe. That you just. Rebuked. My order. In court."

Apollo gulped as Kristoph turned around to face him, furious expression painted on his face. "Perhaps you should find a new firm to work in, Apollo? One where they allow you to do as you will in trial – against direct orders from your superiors?"

"B-But, it's true! I mean, there was no way it can be Orly who exchanged the cards and you know it!"

"We're not here to find the truth, Justice – we're here to get our client OUT! And if we have to point our finger at someone else in the process – what's the harm? If it really wasn't her, no evidence would be able to implicate her now, would there?"

"But isn't that just wrong!? Aren't we suppose to get the real criminals?"

"We're not here to 'get' anything! We're defense attorneys! And all we do is just that – we bloody defend!"

"And that's why you're always pointing that accusatory finger of yours on the innocent ones? To get your clients out of jail? How noble." A voice interrupted them. Following the voice was a pair of slippers – and Phoenix Wright, with both hands stuck into the pocket of his hoodie and a worn smile on his face.

"Wright," Kristoph greeted him pleasantly. "How nice to see you have restored your badge – mentally. It seems old habits really do die hard – if you're any proof."

"I only interject when my defense seems to be faltering, that's all. A kind of one-up, don't you know?"

"I can only imagine – though as your defense, I will kindly request that you leave the defending to the ones who actually have a badge." He bit out, thrusting his briefcases into Apollo's unsuspecting hands.

"I'm going to see the judge. Review the case files in our recess, Apollo." Apollo nodded in answer, and Kristoph instructed him on what to pay attention to in the court record. With one last disdainful sniff in Phoenix's direction, he left for the judge's chambers, which were situated through a hallway behind the seat for the judge. Apollo watched as his footsteps pattered off into the distance, and then the sound of them too.

"You did well, Apollo." Phoenix commented. Apollo turned around to look at him – startled that he would engage him in conversation after making so clear the disapproval of Kristoph.

"Um...Thank you, sir. But I really didn't do anything, it was Mr. Gavin who headed your defence, really."

"Not really – you did your share." He righted the beanie of his and smiled encouragingly at him. "You should be more confident, really. You did a good job out there, especially considering you have no real trial experience at all."

Apollo nodded, accepting the compliment, though he didn't really think so. He dug around Kristoph's briefcase, just to have something to do with his hands and sat himself on the available bench. Phoenix stared at the picture of a balding judge hanged on the wall behind him.

"Can I ask you something...Sir?"

"Hmm?"

"Why did you...Stalk Mr. Gavin that other time?"

"Oops. Haha," The man messed up his hair – what little available of it under the beanie anyway and gave an awkward laugh. "Guess the cat's out of the bag, huh?"

"Yeah. Obviously. And the Paul Razzi thing isn't going to work again this time – nor is that excuse – what was it? Oh yeah, you're the paparazzi, and you just wanna get information on Mr. Gavin." He scowled at the man. "What's up with all that anyway? Why not just come out to say what you want?"

"Eh...Things are delicate." Phoenix replied, scratching his beanie.

" 'Delicate' is the synonym for 'Sneaky' in the world of the law...I think you should know better than I do about that."

"Not really, my mentor didn't taught me much about being sneaky and sleazy. Unlike yours.."

Apollo narrowed his eyes at him. "With all _due_ respect sir, you have no right to judge Mr. Gavin. "

"Don't I?"

"Do you?"

"Eh...No matter." Phoenix shrugged. "You'll see for yourself soon enough."

"If you say so." Obviously this was a man who likes his mysteries – and he wasn't interested in solving them. Apollo retrieved a file from inside the briefcase and snapping it shut, threw it onto the bench beside him. Apollo examined the file – blatantly ignoring him - and Phoenix returned to examining the painting, and both lapsed into a long moment of silence, broken only by the occasional whisper of bailiffs hurrying to and fro outside to lobby, passing messages down and up the hall to prepare the court for the trial later.

"One more question."

"Mhmm?"

"The one who cheated on that night...Was it you?"

"What do you think?" The man sent a scrutinizing gaze his way. "You know how I was disbarred years ago – it's not such a long stretch of imagination that I would cheat in a poker game."

Apollo stared holes into the document.

"So what's the verdict – if you were to judge this little crime?" He asked him.

"You're either really, unbelievably lucky...Or a fraud." He spotted something curious on the paper, and circled it with a pencil. "I'll bet on fraud."

"Living with Kristoph must be making you cynical – you sound exactly like him."

Apollo's head snapped up. "And you know that I live with Kris- Mr. Gavin...How?"

"Ah...Haha." Another sheepish rub of the head. "I think you don't want to know."

"Looks like there's more than one person you spy on, Mr. 'Right'.' Apollo pursed his lips disapprovingly at Phoenix. A moment later, he shrugged. "What you want to do is your business, I guess – though you're really different from what I imagined you to be."

"Fariytales are sweet, m'boy – but they don't last long." He tapped the side of his head in strange motion alien to Apollo. "Especially when they're dreams of heroes – those tend to go wrong the most."

Apollo stood up, putting the file back into the court records. He checked his watch. Almost time. "Thanks for your words of advice – the next time I decide to hero-worship someone, I'll be sure to give you a call. In the mean time, please, do as Mr. Gavin says and stop digging the hole deeper for me. I'm not a good swimmer."

Phoenix chuckled at that. "If you say so – I'm sure your 'defense' will be adequate."

He looked aside, unsure if he was being made fun of, and watched for signs of Kristoph instead. A moment later, the bailiff walked into the lobby and nodded at the two occupants of the room.

"Court will reconvene at 12:10. All parties involved with the trial please ensure that your presence in the court is secured before the time of the trial."

"Of course." Phoenix returned the nod, glancing over at Apollo. "Ready, Apollo?"

"Yes, as soon as Mr. Gavin returns we'll enter the court."

Apollo continued his watch of the doorway, counting methodically to kill the time – and sure enough, Kristoph emerged in the doorway a moment later, unruffled from whatever words it was that had been traded between the judge and him.

"Is it time?" He asked.

Apollo nodded, returning his briefcase to him.  
"Damn," He swore, opening the briefcase to retrieve something. "I haven't had time to refile the paperwork."

"It's okay, I've filed part of it already – and checked them all. Shouldn't take that long to finish filing the rest later." Kristoph nodded at him, flashing him a grateful smile.

"Okay then, shall we?"

He clipped his briefcase shut after retrieving what he needed and with another cordial smile of his aimed at Phoenix, led the way into the courtroom. Apollo pulled a hand back his hair and examined his reflection in the painting to check the spikiness level of his hair instead - they were standing to attention, exactly the way he left the house with this morning.

"Take that," he whistled, and took off after a smiling Kristoph. At the doorway, he turned around to address Phoenix. "And one last thing, Mr. Wright."

Phoenix looked up at him.

"It's 'Justice', not Apollo."

He flashed him a pleasant smile – a perfect replica of Kristoph's - and headed back into the courtroom.

* * *

Trucy paced outside, beside the hallway leading into the defendant's lobby. She kept peering out every minute or so at the window, situated on the west wall of the building. With it's ornate golden carvings – a product of some fanciful architect whose budget was a little too loose if it allowed such finery for a courtroom – and a glass panel divided into equal sections of nines, it offered no great pleasure to a viewer who wished to see the scenery. Trucy found herself squinting every five minutes or so at the glass that was fogging up from the gray weather outside.

No sign of that boy, Kazaf.

She paced up and down the hallway irritably – stopping only to perform for a wandering bailiff who looked like he needed cheering up. It was twelve already, and one recess was already over. There was no telling how many more there were left. When her father had sneaked that phone call to her,he had specifically mention that the evidence might be needed halfway through the trial...And it was halfway through the trial already, wasn't it?

She borrowed a phone from a bailiff and keyed in Kazaf's number.

No answer – except for a mechanical voice telling her that the number she had dialed couldn't be reach – which meant that he had either turned off his phone, or stepped on it really hard.

She growled under her breath, and just for the fun of it, made the bailiff's gun disappeared, to great chaos.

* * *

"Court will now reconvene for the trial of Phoenix Wright." The judge announced, and slammed the hammer down onto the gavel. "Has our witness, Miss Olga Orly recovered?"

Payne stood to attention. "Yes, Your Honour. She's currently waiting in the witnesses' lobby."

"Perhaps we could hear her version of the events again?" Kristoph suggested.

"Yes well...To tell the truth, she's quite fatigued..." he mumbled nervously under Kristoph unwavering stare.

"Sadly, fatigue is insufficient grounds for refusing to testify." He sneered a little at the empty witness stand. "Were it so easy to cry off, then a lot of us wouldn't be here, would we? The defense motions that we hear the testimony of Olga Orly again."

The judge nodded, and summon the bailiff. "Bring the witness, Olga Orly in again." The men nodded, and left the room through the door behind the witness' stand. Kristoph examined Apollo's complexion in the mean time.

"Are you feeling alright? You look a little...Down."

Apollo looked up at him, but he looked tired and burdened – a rare occasion for the boy. "I'm...Fine. Just trying to figure out some stuff."

Kristoph raised an eyebrow. "About the case?"

"I guess." He chewed on his lip slightly. "I just...Figure...Hmm."

"You're sounding rather vague," Kristoph commented. "Something's gotten your brain cells in a twist."

Apollo chewed harder on the lip – a habit of his Kristoph would have to see to correcting. "It's just – Do you think there really was another person at the scene of the crime that night?"

Kristoph's gaze turned cold. "There is no one else there that night, Apollo. Phoenix Wright is merely up to his old tricks – mindless bangs and smoke to get his way."

"You really think so?"

"I know so?" He stated firmly. "Now, are you done doubting?"

"Okay - let's do this then." Apollo pushed his rolled-up sleeves higher. "Here comes Justice!"

The trial continued – but for the rest of it, Kristoph noticed that Apollo never once stopped fidgeting his bracelet.

* * *

One hour later, Apollo was no longer as optimistic. His sleeves were rolled up and the courtroom was stuffy – and he was sweating. Even Kristoph was starting to look bored – his hands were clasped behind him in military precision, but his eyes were wandering, roving over nothing in particular – least of all the witness. It was obvious to just about everyone – perhaps with the exception of Payne and the judge, that her testimony was nothing of baloney, and the only thing worth noting in it was the events of the cheating process.

"And the next moment...The defendant took the bottle and swung it!"

Apollo's head snapped to attention. _Something worth noting at last!_

"Hold it!" Apollo yelled. Payne's head snapped up, mouth opened to rebuke whatever it was that Apollo came up with. "Isn't that odd? You just said Mr. Wright was searched – and you found nothing! He wasn't found to be a fraud – so why on earth would he hit the victim?"

"W-Well...Perhaps he realized what was...Happening?" She scratched the back of her neck and added hopefully. "Maybe...?"

Apollo scowled at her – but not in irritation – something jerked inside him when she had made that comment about him hitting the victim – the kind of feeling that he always got when Kristoph was hiding something from him – only stronger, like it was a blatant lie.

"Is there something wrong, Apollo?" Kristoph glanced sideways at him.  
"She's hiding something! That, and she's lying about something too!"

"And you know that because...?"

"I don't-I just do!" Apollo insisted.  
"That's not good enough for a trial, Apollo – if you think she's hiding something, you're going to need something more than your intuition to nab her."

He nodded, and turned back at the woman. He decided on a wild shot. "Ms. Orly, what would you say if I told you you're hiding something?"

She looked away from his eyes. "U-Um-"

"Because you are! Hiding something, I mean."

"Objection! The defense will please refrain from baseless accusation-"

"And the prosecution will refrain from objecting before the cross-examination is over!" Kristoph shouted back. Apollo pressed on while the other two veterans continued their shouting match – which diverted most of the attention from the court.

"I have just one question for you – you said you saw the moment Wright hit Shadi Smith – is this true?"

The neck again. "Y-Yes- of course."

No mistake this time – whatever she was saying, it wasn't the truth – years of living with Kristoph had taught him to spot a lie from a mile away, and Kristoph was a far more accomplished liar than this stammering lady.

"You know, I noticed something about you, Ms. Orly."

"Y-yes?"

"Every time you mention the murder, or to be precise – the exact moment of it, you get all nervous and twitchy. AND you keep scratching the back of your neck! Why, Ms. Orly?"

"Objection! The defense is asking pointless questions!" Payne screeched. "The witness has no obligation to answer such a thing!"

"Indeed...No? I believe Justice here is quite good at spotting lies...Your Honour?"

"Well.." The judge was troubled. "I suppose it merits a question or two."

"Thank you, Your Honour." Apollo nodded at Kristoph, who nodded back encouragingly. "Now, Ms. Orly...Perhaps the thing that has left such a deep impression in you that it alters your habits entirely might be...This?"

He held up the bottle, framed in an evidence bag.

She looked away adamantly, biting a lip.

"I think I'll take that as a yes."

"Ah, I see." Kristoph pushed his glasses up, and they glinted in reflection. "That provides a nice question, to which only the lady here can answer – why would you be nervous over the mention of the bottle?"

"Perhaps..." Apollo suggested. "You were the one who were hit him!"

"Objection!" Payne shouted. "This is a cross-examination – not wild conjecture session! Keep your crazy conjectures to a work of fanfiction!"

"Objection overruled." The judge peered down at Apollo. "I'm quite curious as to where this may lead."

Apollo nodded. "The defense requests...That the witness testify as to what SHE was doing at the precise moment of the crime!"

* * *

Gumshoe ran down the road at a speed a Olympic runner would perhaps, feel a slight twinge of jealousy at. He barrelled down the road, in close proximity to cars and motor vehicles speeding directly pass him, only about a foot away – yet he looked to the casual passerby as though he felt absolutely nothing of the ongoing danger.

"Hey move your danged car, pal!" A car swerved to avoid him, and slammed into a lamp post. Gumshoe turned around and shook a fist at him – Oh how he wished he wasn't on an urgent secret mission! He would so enjoy arresting that man right there for his violation of the law. But that was all in the past now! He was a man on a mission! A person who owned an important piece of the court case! Now if he only knew which path to take from here...

Did Chief Devereux said left after the junction, or left before the junction?

Dangnabit.

* * *

"So the conclusion that Ms. Orly was unconscious during the crime...Where does that bring us?" The judge asked the court, confused as usual over the proceedings. Apollo chewed on his lip and Payne emitted a confused scowl – only Kristoph seemed entirely unperturbed by the testimony.

"I'm afraid that as the defense...We're obligated to call Ms. Orly here..." He smiled sweetly at the lady in question. "...Nothing more than a liar."

He bowed. "And that is the truth."

"Three people were in the room that night. With the victim gone, there are two. Who amongst the both would have sufficient reason to attempt such an atrocity? The answer, as the lady herself has provided, seems to be herself. Phoenix Wright was searched – he was found without a fraudulent card. The lady in question has failed, and an argument she embroils herself into – and that gives her a motive." He announced to an entranced courtroom, whose occupants were merely waiting for someone to explain the situation to them. They nodded in agreement to him – the first explanation is the one that forms their minds, and had they been judge and jury, Olga Orly would have been convicted right there.

"I'm not a killer!" She protested. "Someone's trying to frame me!"

"There is no one trying to frame you, it's merely a simple and logical-"

A small burst of hysterical giggle interrupted him, and the residents of the courtroom turned to look at it's origin. Phoenix was laughing so violently that his shoulders shook a little in it's effort to contain the laughter.

"Mr. Wright?" The judge called out at him. "Is there something funny you would like to share with the court?"  
He shook his head. "No no, it just seems to me...That more often than not, we seem to get ourselves tangled in the lies we create. Making such a hasty decision isn't like you, Gavin."

Kristoph scowled at him. "It's not hasty, it's logical."

"Why not consider the other possibility then? Of a fourth person in the room that night."

"That, unfortunately I cannot do – I cannot imagine your imaginary fourth person merely to provide you with a convenient criminal."

"Mr. Wright...Please, leave the defending to us." Apollo said. _And shut the hell up! _He added mentally. This guy and his wild suggestions is just making himself look more guilty – after all, the average person would be thinking : Why make up a story if you're not guilty anyway?

"Oh? Why don't you think about it? There was a fourth person there that night – one who didn't know about the colour of the cards."

"There you go again! There's no such thing as a fourth person!" Payne screeched.

"I'm afraid I'll have to agree with the prosecution on this one, Wright."

"No? But thank goodness this is a court of law – where deceit is scarce – though it does exist. Even the smartest criminals make slips, and we have an identity provided to us. Tell me, Apollo, can you figure out who it is?"

Apollo goggled at him.

"A fourth person who doesn't know about the colour of the cards on that night..Who is in court right now. Someone who thought the cards used were blue instead of red. Surely you can figure it out?"

He scowled at the man, and pressed a finger against his forehead. Who was it that thought the cards were blue? He was positive someone had waxed poetic about it before, but he couldn't quite put a finger on it. Someone...Someone...Wait. Poetic?

A flash of memory stabbed back at him.

_Only the cards, their backs wreathed in blue flame, know of the outcome. _

It couldn't be...He shot a startled glance at his mentor – but he showed no reaction, merely righting his glasses once again. A muscle twitched softly on his jaw, and Apollo swallowed. Yes...The only person who thought it was blue – way before the evidence ever came into light was...Well, Kristoph. There was no way around that one. He looked up, and found Phoenix looking expectantly at him. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"I can't think of anyone, sir."

"Think harder." Phoenix narrowed his eyes at him and Kristoph's stance relaxed, and he smiled a little smug smile.

"Really, Wright. Don't press the boy into naming a person that doesn't exist." He smile was so smug it almost borderline on sickly sweetness.

Ignoring him, Phoenix focused his unwavering gaze on Apollo instead. "Apollo! Come now, surely you can figure out who it is?"

"No I don't! Because there's no such person, Mr. Wright!" he insisted – his voice unnaturally loud. "And stop throwing out wild conjectures – there were only three people in the basement, and two people when the murder was committed! There was no fourth person, there IS no fourth person and that's the truth of it!"

Dark blue eyes bored holes into Apollo's head, and he swallowed, looking away from the accusatory look. "Very well..You disappoint me, Apollo. I thought you would deserve your name a little more."

He threw him a dirty look and turned away and addressed the court instead. "If the young prodigy here refuses to tell what he's obviously figured out for himself, then allow me to enlighten the court instead."

Beside Kristoph, Apollo made a nervous little sound, a cross between a gasp and a gag, and Kristoph put a calm hand onto his shoulder.

"It'll be fine."

Apollo glanced at him, a million questions running through his brain – first and foremost were the ones : 'Were you really there?' and 'Did you do it?' Not that he particularly wanted the answer to that last one.

"We'll talk later," Came the soft voice. It soothed his raw nerves. Apollo nodded, and returned his attention to the man standing up on the defendant's seat, addressing the court as a whole.

"Recall." His voice was firm and unwavering. "To tell the truth, I almost missed it myself. But it doesn't do anyone good to turn their eyes away from the truth. And there's no use hiding something like that isn't it...Kristoph?"

Suddenly the center of attention shifted to Kristoph as heads turned towards him instead. He showed no reaction that he had heard such an accusation at all, only leveling a cool blue eye at him.

"Mr. Gavin...? Wait, you're not saying..." The judge trailed off, dumbfounded.

"Kristoph Gavin. You were the fourth person that night."

A collective gasp escaped from part of the courtroom, while a stunned silence reigned on the other side. Even a guard – usually as impassive as the queen's knight himself gaped at the trial's progress.

"Baloney," A voice called out. Almost all present were expecting the rebuke from Kristoph – but he hadn't moved, scarcely even breath – and he had not spoken. Instead, it was the pointy-headed young attorney beside him that had spoken.

"That's..." He shook his head in disbelief at Phoenix. "That's just bullshit. Plain and simple." He slammed his fists against the wooden surface and shouted - "If you're going to spew bullshit in court, Phoenix Wright, at least make it believable!"

'Oh? And why isn't it believable?" He retorted. "You must have realized he knew about the 'blue' cards long before they came into question – explain that to me!"

"Of course he would know! The photo -"

"-- Is black and white!" Phoenix's voice had rose to the point of a shout. "You can't tell which of the cards are blue – the ones on the table or the ones on the floor!"

"Yes, but this picture--"

"He said it long before that coloured picture surface in court and you know it!" The defendant's stand had a podium of it's own, and it shook when Phoenix's furious palm slammed onto it. "That's the truth!"

_**It is true that the defendant was engaged in a game of poker with the victim.**_

"No, it's not true!" Apollo shouted back.

_**Yet it was only that : a game, in the purest sense. A competition, Your Honour.**_

"It's impossible!"

"Show me something impossible – and I'll show you what it is – a lie well done!"

_**Yes, a test of wits, a silent clash of passions...**_

_That's just.._

"Stop being in denial, boy! You know better than that!"

"This is madness – Phoenix Wright, you've gone off the rocker at last--"

"Apollo, admit it!"

_But that's..._

_**Only the cards, their backs wreathed in blue flame, know it's final outcome.**_

_That's just..._

"Impossible. It's impossible." Apollo choked out at last. No one else was convinced, which wasn't surprising, because he himself wasn't convinced either. But his mind rebelled at the very idea that Kristoph could possibly be a possible culprit. That was just farfetched! Ridiculous! Because...Because...

He slumped back against the wooden barricade and let out a shaky breath.

"You're wrong, Mr. Wright. There's just...No such thing. You're lying."

"The boy's right!" Payne interjected. "You've gone from crazy to downright insane, Phoenix Wright! To accuse your own defense attorney of murder...What are you planning next? The judge – or maybe the president?"

"That's right! Mr. Gavin and the victim have no connection of any sort – why would he possibly, conceivably --"

"I wasn't aware I had a motive to kill Mr. Smith either," Phoenix retorted.

"Yes, but the victim and Gavin has never even met!"

"But what if they have?" Phoenix suggested with a sly sideway glance. "They may have met before the game started that night."

"What...What are you..." The judge was flabbergasted, and so were the rest of the court.

Payne's mouth was not unlike that of a fish. "Insane...To accuse him of murder – that he 'may' have met him..."

Phoenix merely smiled. "I wish to testify, Your Honour – regarding the events of that night."

"Well this is definitely unprecedented," The judge leaned heavily on his gavel, troubled. "I'm afraid that I have no authority on this one to decide whether or not you testify – Mr. Wright. You are the defendant, and whether or not you testify is the decision of the defense as a whole."

He turned at the defense's bench – where Apollo was still slumped against the wall with a dazed expression. Kristoph had made scarcely a squeak since the accusation, merely staring stonily – and indeed boredly at the wall opposite him.

He licked his lips with a thinly darting tongue, and spoke. "There is no need to ask the defense, Your Honour. The defendant has testified – and has prove himself uncooperative, stubborn, and contradictory. I believe the decision is obvious – there is absolutely no need."

The judge nodded. "What about you, Mr. Justice? Do you agree with his statement?"

"I..." Apollo looked up. "I'm not...That is..."

"Mr. Justice, are you quite alright!?" The judge exclaimed. "You don't look quite yourself!"

Apollo closed his eyes. "The defense would like Mr. Wright to testify."

Anywhere but at Kristoph.

"I object, Your Honour," Kristoph put in mildly. "The defense would like to request no such thing. It's a waste of our time – a precious commodity. "Testimonies must be related to the case. How can something that happened before the murder, that is not included in the charges addressed in this case possibly be allowed in a testimony?"

The judge nodded, satisfied with his explanation. "Well, he does make sense – unrelated testimony is, as a rule, illegal in a tri--

"Objection," A quiet voice interrupted. Apollo stood up from where he had been leaning heavily against the wooden barricade separating the defense's bench and the stands behind them. Several heads peered down at him from above in anticipation – he obliged by calmly stepping up, expressionless.

"I would like to retract the statement Mr. Gavin gave."

Fury, cold and menacing flashed across Kristoph's face, reflected in a furious glare at Apollo. "You dare?"

Apollo refused to look at him, and fixed his eyes on the judge. "I believe that when Mr. Payne had read out the charges against Mr. Wright...There had been included in the statement 'Possession of Illegal Paraphernalia.' He looked over to the other bench, and Payne nodded enthusiastically. "The poker game is said to be simply that – a game, but that has yet to be proven by decisive evidence - it is hearsay. If. If indeed the poker game itself was a form of gambling, the charge of 'Possession of Illegal Paraphernalia' will become valid, in which case, Mr. Gavin's presence in the club implies that he may be an accomplice to the aforementioned charge."

"Which means..." His eyes rolled over the court...And paused on Phoenix Wright. "That it gives us a valid reason to listen to Mr. Wright's testimony."

"Preposterous! Rookie, it looks like you're next in line for insanity!" Payne yelled out angrily.

"Pointless," Kristoph snarled viciously – and confronted Apollo. "You would betray me, Apollo? Your own teacher?"

_Father_, Apollo corrected him quietly. But of course Kristoph wouldn't admit to such a thing – not in public. Not ever.

He looked up at him, hoping that his sincerity reflected in his eyes. "This isn't a matter of loyalty...Sir. This is for the truth."

Kristoph's anger never wavered, not even for a second. The judge saw fit to interrupt the one-sided fury before blows were dealt. "Very well, it's decided then – Will the defendant please take to the stand?"

Phoenix smiled and followed a bailiff that ran over to do the judge's bidding, slipping him into the witness's stand.

* * *

The courthouse was not very different from a mirage – the way it faded out of sight and into sight whenever it was convenient to be – the way an oasis did to the casual passerby in the desert – but it was little different for Gumshoe – mainly because he didn't known the word 'mirage' or the word 'oasis' and also because he was in the middle of the city – which meant that there could be no such thing as refracted light rays, etc.

Still, logical thoughts, useful though they may be prove no use to Gumshoe at the moment. He leaned against the wall, one arm outstretched to stop himself from falling – and squinted at the building in the distance. He panted. Why the hell does it seem so far? He had already been running for more than an hour – and the building was now literally, in sights. But despite all that, no matter how hard he runs towards it – it was almost like he was running in circles – he simply never got closer.

He took out the envelope and examined it (Without opening it of course, because chief Devereux would kill him if he did.) and tried to get himself pumped up by looking at The Important Piece of Evidence. It's real! It's solid! It was a secret mission for him!

...No go. He sighed, and stashed the brown paper back into the inside pocket of his coat clumsily. He was getting too old for this – at almost forty – to continue running around the place like a madman. And if he hadn't quite reach that level of maturity mentally, then at least his body had realized it's limits. Gumshoe sighed at a signboard.

Oh well, nothing to do but to go for it – if he can make it in time, he might just get that promotion – and the kids will have it a little easier the next semester. Puffing up his chest, Gumshoe took towards the building in new vigour again – turning right, then right, then right, then right again, just as Chief Devereux had instructed.

* * *

"I was the one who picked up his hat and put it back on his head." Phoenix was saying to the gathered court.

"But why would you do that!?" The judge exclaimed.

"Eh," He stared off into the distance. "Well, I thought it wouldn't be nice to leave the poor man's head cold, you know. And I have my own reason, as you will see."

"So...Miss Orly didn't see his head?" Apollo ventured the question out, though it was done blandly. He was starting to think that Kristoph was right after all, and this cross-examination is a waste of their time, and he drummed his fingers on the table Impatiently. Kristoph looked up from the paperwork he was examining.

"It seems our witness is determined to lie through his teeth the whole trial."

"S-sir?" That was the first time he had spoken to him since his requesting the testimony of Phoenix Wright – he had only bothered to address him through court.

"He's lying, Justice. Expose him," He ordered.  
"I-I--" Apollo nodded meekly at Kristoph. "Alright, I'll see if I can find any."

"There are! Find them!"

Phoenix's head pricked up at the little angry outburst from Kristoph and looked over – quite like a hound that had smelt the scent of blood. "Ah? What's the little altercation over there?"

"It's nothing," Kristoph smiled pleasantly at him. "Please, continue your little parade of mockery."

"Oh, I assure you, I speak nothing but the truth."

"The truth perhaps, by your account – but all I see is nothing but wild statements, backed by no evidence."

"Ah." He shrugged. "All will come out in time. Now..As for the card in the bottle -"

Kristoph stood up to interrupt him, crossing his arms at the assembled court."I believe that's quite enough of that, Mr. Wright. Nothing you have told the court is new – other than your own little misdemenours. You haven't produced a single shred of evidence of a 'fourth person', or tell us of his pertinence to our trial. All you have done," He growled at Phoenix. "Is attempt to explain away all your little crimes by pinning it on our 'fourth person'."

"Your 'testimony' is nothing short of 'travesty'! It's very essence is made up of lies!"

"Mr. Gavin!" The judge exclaimed, taken aback by the venom in his tone. "May I remind you that you're speaking to your own client!?"

"I see no reason to speak politely to a person worthy of contempt of court – in the very literal sense! In fact, I'm beginning to see how he lost his badge seven years ago – he lies-"

"--I have told no lie in this court!" Phoenix interjected. "Unlike you, I might add. You've been lying since the moment you stepped foot into this courtroom!"

"Yes – and the lie would be proclaiming your innocence, Phoenix Wright – because you seem to be anything but!"

Payne tapped his forehead and shook a mocking head at the both of them. "Really, really, that's why I hate conducting a trial with amatuers – they're quite like children themselves--"

"--Absence of proper evidence. Absence of provable testimony, Absence of reliability – you might as well cease to exist for the amount of yourself you bring to trial!"  
"That's enough! Penalty! Penalty!"

"Well you certainly have a unique way of being hospitable to your clients, Kristoph. I never knew."

"I believe you were the one who throw the first stone? Am I suppose to remain impassive to a raving lunatic in court – who wastes my time by simple breathing?"

"Mr. Gavin, Mr. Wright – calm down--"

"If your evidence is so precious--"

"Oh! Producing evidence now? How exciting!"

"You--"

"--Pathetic--"

"_THAT'S ENOUGH!_"

Kristoph shrunk back from the loud roar beside him. "I thought I'm the rookie here! Why are the both of you acting like that!? Is this why I went to all the trouble of attending law school – so that I can return to the kindergarten sandbox?" He grabbed the nearest heavy file he reached for and flung it at Prosecutor Payne.

"Hey! What did I --"

Apollo turned his back on him to face Phoenix. "If you have something to prove, Mr. Wright, then please do it – now." Before you lose all credibility."

Phoenix returned a long hard look at him, before reaching into his pocket. "I believe I have here what you want." He retrieved a phone from his pocket – along with a couple of brightly wrapped candies and threw them onto the podium carelessly. "That's your evidence."

"My, that's certainly something new! Bailiff, retrieve that at once for the court to be examined." The phone was passed around. When it came to Kristoph's turn, he merely held it disdainfully with two outstretched fingers in an exaggerated motion of repressed disgust.

"And what might this be evidence of? A confessional? Or more likely perhaps, nothing more damning than a take-out order?" He handed the phone over to Apollo, who merely turned it around before returning it back to Phoenix, who chuckled.

"No, I believe it's the evidence that you've been asking from me – the one that proves my 'wild conjecture', as you called it."

Kristoph pushed his glasses up. "Enlighten me."

"This is...A recording of a conversation I had with you last night, Kristoph. " He held the phone up and set the volume to maximum, and the collective audience leaned forward to catch a better whiff of the conversation. "Just in case it was needed, I recorded the conversation."

Kristoph prodded at his glasses.

The phone clicked.

_**Kristoph. I seem to be in a bit of trouble.**_

_What's this? Game not going well?_

_**Something like that.**_

_That gentleman who challenged you...He turned out to be good?_

_**He turned out to be dead. Someone hit him. Hard.**_

_You mean someone cracked that flawless bone china pate? ...It wasn't you, was it?_

_**Me? Please. The cops should be here any minute. I'm in your hands...Should it come to that.**_

Phoenix clicked the phone shut, signaling the end of the significant part of the conversation, and something clicked in Kristoph's self too. It was a faint ripple – barely detectable to the untrained eye – but it was there, a ripple of uncertainty that clawed itself a little more foothold.

"Bone china pate...?" Apollo repeated. He had seen one of those in Kristoph's momento cabinet before – and he had been quite fond of those shiny objects, and Kristoph had called him a magpie fondly. "Those...Porcelain things?"

"Ah," Phoenix slipped him a sly glance. "Heard of those before?"

"Perhaps." Apollo shrugged. "But what was he referring to with 'bone china pate'?"

"Slippery aren't you?" The man grinned at him. "I believe he's addressing the forehead of a certain balding gentleman, perhaps recently deceased...?" Apollo turned the colour of his shirtsleeves, and Phoenix flashed a victorious grin.

"Nothing to add to the statement? A contradiction, perhaps?" Apollo clammed up – and he thought Kristoph appeared a little more relax – though he couldn't fathom why the other two, the judge and the prosecutor couldn't figure out the glaring contradiction.

"Nothing jumps up at me, no."

What he needed jumping out at him was time. He needed time to sort this out – to figure out if Kristoph is really guilty, like Wright seems to be claiming. He needed to talk to Kristoph – for explanation, and comfort, and then, perhaps then, he would make a decision as to what he needed to do – whose side he needed to be on, not that he was sure he would be much help anyway.

Phoenix leaned in, lounging an elbow on the podium and looking bored. "Come now, Apollo. Not that game again – it's getting old. Stop acting dumb or I might just think you're naturally dimwitted."

"I am terrified at the prospect, I assure you." The only one whose opinion mattered to him was standing beside him anyway.

"Okay...if you like embarrassment." Phoenix twirled the phone like a baton. "What the good attorney there is too dim to figure out is this – think about it - why would Kristoph know about the balding head of Shadi Smith? After all...The man's hat was still well attached on his forehead when he met Kristoph – proven conveniently by the picture Miss Orly there took."

"That was when I began to see my good 'friend' in a different light. I hung up, and returned to the scene and when I spotted Mr. Smith's head again, I realized exactly what was wrong." He bored holes into Kristoph with his unwavering gaze. "Well then. Curtains have been raised – now let's see you perform, Kristoph."

"Exactly how did you come to the privileged information of the victim's head?"

Kristoph maintained a stony facade. "So this is your 'reason.' Your 'reason' for putting the hat back onto the victim's head."

"Yes." Phoenix answered simply. "My glove has been thrown down. Where's yours, Gavin?"

He looked up at the man on the witnesses stand and announced gravely. "So it's come to this, has it, Phoenix Wright."

Then he mouthed the words, which none but two others caught.

_Let's dance, then._

The judge banged his gavel, breaking the silence that had wrapped around the court – partly from disbelief and partly in anticipation – like a sheer precipice in the middle of a forest. "It seems that once again, Mr. Wright has thrown out another miraculous accusation – and this time, strangely, with the evidence to back it up." He nodded sympathetically at Apollo, as though a pat on the head to tell him how sorry he was for his first trial turning out to be so complicated. "The court will have to listen to Mr. Gavin's explanation for the question that this latest piece of evidence have given rise to – but first, we adjourn for a brief recess."

Two heads nodded – Phoenix's and Payne's, dejectedly. Apollo merely stared at the bench in growing incredulity at the state of his case and Kristoph looked off into the distance with a dreamy, flitting look almost befitting an elf - he appeared completely unconcern to the state of events. The gavel came down again, the and the contents of the courtroom spilled out a second time, lawyers, accused, and murderers alike – but this time, the battle line-up was a little different.

* * *

Pun : Right, right, right, right. If all streets are the same length it leads you back to...? xD


	17. Part Four, Show Hand

(Oh dear. Plot hole from earlier chapter – so sorry. Just read through the script and realized that Phoenix mentioned that the passage leads to an upper floor in the restaurant. No, I can't correct this one since uh...It would be ridiculous to have Kazaf spot Kristoph running out into a floor teeming with police – so there, plot hole. And anyway, I find it kinda dumb that a 'secret' passageway would lead to the upper floor so the criminal can 'enjoy a good bowl of borscht'– I mean, if the place was surrounded by cops, don't you think they would be on the top floor too? -_-)

Caution :Butchered trial, butchered sensibilities, butchered personality and...Oh yes, swearing. Also, hyped up drama on some parts for the REAL Kazaf. xD

* * *

**Part four : Show Hand**

Apollo walked out of the courtroom a decidedly different person from the him who had walked into the courtroom for the first time as a defense attorney just a few hours earlier. His footsteps felt heavier, his shoulders more tensed, and his heels clicked more on the tiled floor of the defendant's lobby – and even that click seem to echo more gravely than it had in the morning. Perhaps this was why people had always told him that the life of a lawyer is not an easy life – he checked his watch. Two thirty - he had been one in earnest for a whole of five hours, and he was already on his way down the therapist's well trodden path.

The door swung apart behind him and Kristoph stalked out after him, his face constructed into a face of perfect intellectual disinterest – just like it had been when Apollo had first met him. How different it was from then! Something in him mused. He would never have been able back then, for example, tell that a little dimple emerged on his right cheek when he was angry, and that the same cheek would twitch when he's angry enough - just like it was doing now.

Kristoph stopped short in front of Apollo, and the two stared into each other – two people who had no idea if they should hate or love each other, standing in the middle of the defendant's lobby.

"Kristoph." Apollo nodded, inclining his head. Confidence. He had to put on a strong face – doubt and whatever follows can wait till later – for now he needed to appear strong. Why, he didn't know, but he knew he had to do it – if merely to live up to the Gavin creed of a cool, calculative facade.

"Apollo." Kristoph returned the nod – and both lapsed into silence, treading on soft ground peppered with land mines.

"I..." Apollo twiddled his thumbs and licked his lips. How to proceed? "I wanted to ask you something. Back there, I mean."

"Can it wait?" He answered him impatiently. "The judge wants me his chamber."f

"Okay, maybe later -- " Apollo hesitated, and found that he didn't want that lingering doubt in his chest for a moment longer. Doubt was black, and doubt was cold, and that same doubt had found a way to creep up into his convictions. "Actually, no – It can't wait."

"Well too bad – wait anyway," Kristoph snapped, turning on his heels to leave for the hallway.

"Wait!" He managed to snag a strand of Kristoph's hair and the man turned around, hissing at him like a cat whose tail was stepped on.

"What is it?" He snapped. "And don't touch my hair."

"Sorry," Apollo mumbled.

He had brush Kristoph's hair just that morning – before Kristoph dropped the bombshell on him about the trial.

"But it's – that's to say, I really want an answer to this."

"This being...?"

"The trial."

"Ah," Kristoph pulled out a comb to right to his hair. "And what about it?"

"I..." Apollo scratched at the ground with his foot again.

"Well? You're getting almost as good as Wright is in wasting my time – out with it."

"Did you do it?" He blurted out.

Kristoph leveled a look at him. "Did what?"

"Kill him." he faintly yelled out in exasperation. "What else? Cook an egg?"

"I'm sorry? I wasn't aware I was on trial here for the murder of Shadi Smith – or anyone else either, actually." He smiled a flat smile at Apollo. "Though, if you keep this up – I just might."

Apollo knew an evasion when he saw one – and it just made him press harder anyway. "Did you do it?"

"You sound like a parrot, Apollo."

"Did you do it?" He said again, this time enunciating every syllable. "Did you?"

"I'm not obligated to tell you everything." Kristoph bit back, a growl escaping his controlled accent.

"TELL ME!" Apollo roared, shoving him in the chest. Kristoph fell back a step.

"I DON'T HAVE TO TELL YOU EVERYTHING!" Kristoph roared back, returning the shove with a harder one. Apollo stumbled backwards and fell onto the ground.

"You're nothing to me." He spat out. "And I don't have to tell you anything. Not a single, bloody thing."

Apollo's gut twisted. Of course – what had he expected? Group hug?

"K-Kristoph, look-- " He struggled out, trying to reason with the man - but Kristoph merely interrupted him with a snap.

"Save it, Apollo. Save it." He turned on his heel and started walking out of the room – showing no signs of their altercation but for a slight quickening of his breath. He was halfway across the room before Apollo climbed back onto his feet.

"I'm your son," He called out quietly – but loud enough for anyone in the silent lobby to hear. "I have a right to know."

Kristoph stared resolutely ahead at the door and Apollo felt his eyes tearing up. He bit back bitter tears.

"You don't have to tell me everything, but I'm your son." He said. "And I think that merits something – at least one bloody thing."

Kristoph's face was turned against the door – but his shoulder betrayed every hint Apollo needed of stony impassiveness.

"Then, learn about it when you hear it from the cops – like every other normal son."

That was as close to a confession as he would ever allow, and without another word exchanged – Kristoph stalked out of the of the room, preceded in his stride by his long shadow – leaving Apollo alone in the defendant's lobby.

"Ah..." Apollo stumbled and collapsed against the floor, suddenly exhausted beyond belief. He stared up at the fluorescent light above him through thickly gathering tears and tried his best to smile at the ceiling in an attempt to elevate his own mood. Instead, tears streamed down his face sideways. "Hahaha..."

He laughed, a short bitter bark of laughter at first – but before long it gathered momentum and turned itself into a large, hearty gale of maniacal laughter instead.

"Oh, that's a good one Kristoph." He jeered at the ceiling. "You don't have to tell me _everything_ indeed. When have you ever told me ANYTHING?"

He threw an arm over his eyes, but the smile was still there – grinning like a madman. "That's a good one."

The smile stretched further, until it gathered a hint of desperation – like the smile of a crying man. Like his.

"...That's a good one." He swallowed. "That's a good one..."

The arm came off his face and both arms laid expanded beside him. The light would have blinded him normally, but the tears prevented them. He squinted up at the ceiling, smiling all the way – when the silence was broken by an abrupt set of claps.

"Bravo!" A voice called out, accompanied by a set of strong hands clapping. "Bravo! A good show – if I've ever seen one."

Feet hit lightly on the ground and progressed closer. Something blocked out the light, and Apollo raised his head a little – and squinted up at the face of Phoenix Wright, kneeling down beside him.

"Encore, Apollo, if that's how all your performances will be like." He reached a hand down and flicked a hair at Apollo's face, playfully. "That was well done."

"Go fuck yourself, Wright." Apollo snapped out, his smile disappearing along with the light.

Phoenix chuckled. "Why? I think I'll have more fun fucking Kristoph out there in court."

"Is this all some kind of game to you?"

He peered down at the younger man. "Not really – it's revenge – for a seven-year-old debt."

"He had nothing to with your disbarment seven years ago." Apollo stated.

"Really?" He grinned slyly at him. "You don't seem very convinced."

And he wasn't.

"He had nothing to do with your disbarment," He repeated, the way only a weakly convinced person could.

"Perhaps," Phoenix acceded with a careless shrug. "But I've nurtured this grudge for a long time."

"And that's why you're so hellbent on wrecking Kristoph?"

"Hey, I'm only giving him a taste of his medicine. He wouldn't have been in this mess in the first place, if he hadn't had a bout of itchy-handedness, would he?" He grinned. "It's nothing he hasn't done to someone else before."

"He hasn't been convicted of anything yet – YOU'RE the one at trial." Apollo snapped, reminding him who was the man in cuffs and behind the defendant's stand.

"Yes, I am," Phoenix straightened up – and the light came back, blinding Apollo. "But he's the one who'll end up behind bars."

Apollo climbed into a sitting position. "And you're so convinced of that because...?"

"Because..." He knelt back down again – and this time he was face to face with him. "Because I know a person like you, Apollo – I was once one myself – and once you've gotten into your head to get to bottom of it, you won't stop until you do."

"Never," Apollo spat out. "I'll never become something like you. You-You're nothing but thrash – worse than even a worm."

"Maybe," He stood up, and stuck both hands into his hoodie pockets with his head tilted slightly upwards, as though challenging him to take a good look at him. "But I'm a piece of thrash your precious Kristoph created. I'm not the first – and I won't be the last person he ruins."

"He won't." Apollo followed him into a standing position and snarled. "He won't ruin anyone else – he's not- not the man you seem so eager to paint him as. He won't ruin anyone – at least not anymore."

"Really?" Phoenix tipped Apollo's face upwards with a surprisingly gentle hand, and said, almost sadly.

"But I already see another ruined man," He whispered softly. The hand slipped, and Phoenix walked out of the room too, following after the same path that Kristoph had taken - leaving Apollo alone to realize how true those words were.

* * *

Trucy peeked around the corner – and spotted the man her father had told her to hand the card over to – the one with the brown hair spiked into the form of two horns, sporting the striking red vest – though admittedly the horns were looking kind of well, downcast at the moment.

She took a deep breath and recite to herself the speech she had came up with. First she would walk up to him...And then she'll say "Hello sir, please pick a card." And then he'll pick the card, and she would relay her father's message to him – cleverly constructed so that no one would be able to link the statement to him – thereby rendering the evidence pointless – with her touch of magical sputzah of course. She took a deep breath and hurried into the room before she changed her mind, soft feet padded by the red carpet.

Trucy stood up on her toes – it wasn't necessary, since he wasn't that tall, but it made her feel appropriately sneaky – and patted him on the shoulder.

"Ah!" The man turned around and looked at her – looking tired, like her father after a whole night of work at the club.

"Um..." He hesitantly said when she didn't make any further comment. "...Is there something I can help you with? Are you lost?"

She blinked at him – and all her well-practiced speeches flew out of the window at the sight of the crushed face. "Are YOU okay? You look kinda...sad."

The man looked taken aback at the comment, but a second later he managed a tremulous smile. "Yes, I am – the red eyes are from my lunch. Onions in the salad." He laughed a hollow laugh, and Trucy peered at him. This guy was a terrible liar – one didn't even need to have any special Gramarye power to see he was lying.

"Okay." She blinked. What was she suppose to do now?

He blinked back at him. "I'm sorry, is there something you want? Because the trial starts in another five minutes – and I have to get ready."

"Oh yes!" She pulled out the envelope containing the forged ace – to hell with it! Mysterious and hard-to-get is so yesterday anyway! She thrust the envelope into his hands. "I was told to hand that to you."

He blinked again, this time rapidly.

"By who?"

"Um! This guy in a uh...Lab coat. He said it was evidence and to give it to a guy with antennas on his head in a red vest."

"A guy in a lab coat...Here in court?" His expression turned sceptical. "Did he say what it is?"

The proper response would be "This card you have chosen is magical; use it wisely and the game is yours," but that was neither here nor there, like her father always said – so she decided to lie through her teeth instead.

"I don't know! Why don't you see? Maybe it's something that will help your trial." He nodded dejectedly, not even bothering to question her further – extracting the card out of the envelope.

"This..." He flipped the card around. "This is an ace?"

"Yeap! Looks like it?"

He examined the blood drops on the card and rubbed a hesitant thumb over the finely painted fake blood. "The ace..The fifth ace..." He mumbled under his breath. "But how...And why not the prosecution..?."

"Okay!" She reached up and patted him on his arm. "That's going to be your trump card! Make sure you save my daddy, okay?"

And with a whirl of her cloak and the turn of her eye – she turned around and walked out of the room, normally. The moment she was out of sight, she ran half the hallway and turned out of the courthouse into the the courthouse garden.

"I did it!" She squealed, launching herself into the arms of Gumshoe.

"That's a good girl, pal! Now my top secret mission is accomplished!"

"Yeah!" She leaned up and gave him a high-five, turning back only to smile at the courthouse windows. He would be able to save her daddy – she was sure of it.

* * *

Apollo fingered the card and stared out of the the hallway window – a magnificent structure unbefitting of a courthouse – the premise for so many scumbags and under-the-table settlements.

It was a fake.

He knew that the way he knew his finger was connected to his hand – mostly because Kristoph had long taught him to doubt everything and everyone. That sort of principle made one question people more, doubt more, dislike more. It makes him ask the question – why would the card be sent to him – when the forensics lab worked under the government, and hence would provide all evidence to the prosecution?

Because it was a fake.

Next question then.

Who forged it? That was a no brainer. Whose daughter was it that had handed it to him? Well, that person would be the person responsible then, unless the girl somehow forged it herself to help her father. Which meant...What? That he was guilty and was just accusing Kristoph out of some sort of compulsion for vengeance? That he wanted to safeguard his victory and didn't trust in Apollo's skill?

God. He placed his forehead against the glass and resisted the urge to slam his head against the glass and smashing it to bits.

Decisions, decisions. Who was the one guilty? Who really killed Shadi Smith last night? Why all the secrecy on the part of the other than?

He raised his palm and flattened it against the cold glass pane. One thing was for sure – he needed to enter this trial with a completely unbiased judgement – then he would see for himself if it was Kristoph who was guilty or Phoenix.

And if it turned out to be Kristoph...

His finger curled around the piece of card – nearly crushing it.

If it was – he would do everything in his power, no matter how long it took, to put Kristoph in his deserved place - and he would start by using this fake to get to the bottom of things.

***

Kristoph never did make it to the judge's chamber because he was curled up in a stall in the courthouse's toilet, crouched onto the lidded toilet like a naughty schoolboy trying to escape his teacher and his detention session. He wrapped his hands around his knees – pulled up all the way to his chest - in an attempt to warm himself from the chill inside him – the one that froze everything and stopped him from feeling anything – because he WANTED to feel something.

The toilet was the last place on Earth dignified Kristoph wanted to be – but he wasn't feeling particularly dignified at the moment. His ribbon had become untied and his coat was slack – even his hair looked messier and more worn – just like him, because all of a sudden he felt like years had suddenly ambushed him and caught him off guard – and he felt tired and he felt tired and he felt tired. He felt like a crushed person who has seen a little too much for his own sanity.

He stared at the dirty ground and the dirty water on it reflected a murky him back at him. A few miscreant tears joined them, making a strange _drip, drip_ sound. The sound echoed in the lonely little toilet situated in a forlorn corner of the courthouse, and Kristoph found himself staring fascinated at the droplets making their debut onto the puddle.

What was he doing here? He wondered.

A few more fell, ones that he wouldn't have been able to stop even if he wanted to, and he stared at those fascinatingly too.

Oh, he was crying.

But what was he crying about?

He took off his glasses and wiped a tear off his face, pausing only to lick a drop of it. It tasted surprisingly salty – and a fact popped into Kristoph's mind. He had heard once, a long time ago, that tears of regret tasted a lot saltier than tears of sadness – was that what this is then? A little pity party for himself?

He drew a shuddering breath.

Ridiculous. He didn't need this sort of thing.

Touchy feely hugging sessions were for people like Apollo – sentimental fools that have too much time on their hands and too little brains to divide them between. They were pointless – and for him especially – He regretted nothing. Nothing at all.

He thought of losing this little battle with Phoenix Wright, and flashes of prison life streamed at him. A cell. They would probably put him in one of those private cells – doers of manslaughter tend to be higher in the hierarchy than their lowly counterparts of thieves and robbers – and he would be deprived of the little good things in life. No books, no nail polish, no shopping, no Klavier and...No Apollo. Who was he going to make to do all the laundry? Who was going to make breakfast? And for that matter, would Apollo be able to survive on his own? If Phoenix won – and he really got incarcerated – Apollo would be out of a job – his partners wouldn't waste a second in firing that little backstabbing twerp.

Which would put him back where Kristoph had been years before – a struggling attorney trying to make a name for himself, in a way more desperate than those failed singers in bars, trying their best to catch the attention of that special person in the crowd who was going to make them famous.

And who's fault is this?

Phoenix Wright.

It was all his fault, Kristoph railed inside – like a child who had his way thwarted. If he had just kept his nose out of his business and gone his way none of this would have happened. If he hadn't snatched Kristoph's job right out his nose years earlier – he wouldn't have fob that forgery on him, and Zak Gramarye wouldn't have had to leave. Then no one would be disbarred, and Zak Gramarye wouldn't have returned years later, and Kristoph wouldn't have had to kill anyone - or at least be caught in the act anyway.

It was all. His. Fault.

The glasses snapped inside Kristoph's hand – neatly bisecting the halves with a crack in the middle.

Damn the man._ DAMN HIM DAMN HIM DAMN HIM DAMN HIM DAMN HIM --_

He had to waltz into his life again – why he couldn't he kept out and stay OUT? He slammed a fist into the wall of the toilet stall and the divider shook at the venom of his fury. Why couldn't he have just faded into history after being disbarred? Turn into a shamed paralegal or something and vanish off the fringes of law's history?

He should have gone for Phoenix's head last night too – then he wouldn't be in this mess. If there was a fatal mistake he had made that day, it would have been letting Phoenix lived to tell the tale.

A pound interrupted his thoughts.

If he got out of this unscathed he would have to arrange for the man to be disposed off – perhaps he would have to hire someone else to do it for him this time – not an idea he relished – but wouldn't it be far too obvious if he dropped dead soon after a wild accusation like that? No, perhaps he would wait – And when the time comes, he'll get him out his hair once and for all, that miserable, ill-dressed...

"Hey man! How long you gotta take in there?" Someone called out. Kristoph observed the feet outside his stall shuffled impatiently, and he checked his watch. Only two more minutes – he would have to hurry then, and this little pity party of his was over.

He stood up and righted himself, threw the last of his glasses into the toilet and flushed it down. He watched calmly as the remains of his glasses swirled down the siphon clockwise in an almost hypnotic manner before reaching into his pocket to retrieve his spare pair of glasses.

Placing his spare pair onto it's perch on his nose, he straightened himself and made sure he was once again, impeccable, immaculate. Perfect. He clicked his little pocket mirror shut and opened the door to face the world once again as Kristoph Gavin - the man who doesn't cry.

***

Phoenix unwrapped a piece of candy and popped it into his mouth nonchalantly, ignoring the guard who was glaring at him from beside the closed doors of the courtroom.

"Excuse me sir, you can't do that here – This is a serious place – not a playground."

Phoenix looked around the empty defendant's lobby – goodness! Where could his defense attorneys possibly be? - and returned an empty stare at the man. "Who's playing?"

The guard snapped his mouth shut and returned to his poor imitation of the queen's guards, shooting sparse glares at Phoenix. He whistled a little sailor's ditty he learned from a customer and peeped at the guard's watch. 11:43. His defense attorneys should be showing up soon – after all, he didn't really know Kristoph as a guy who would miss a trial – and he suspected the same was true for his apprentice, who was as high-strung a kid as he's ever met.

He chuckled, shrugging his shoulders a little at the thought of Apollo's godsmacked expression during the trial – Oh what a sad boy, to put all his trust blindly like that on that little snake. A bang interrupted his judgement of Apollo's character and he looked up in time to see the door being thrown apart by a belligerent arm.

"Am I late?" A head poked into the lobby, and seeing Phoenix, cracked into a smile. "Hi Phoenix, I'm your pompom kid for the day – how would you like your cheer done - rare, medium, or well done?"

"Kazaf." He inclined his head at the boy, and again at his sister, who entered with an expression worthy of a vonKarma. "Elizabeth. How nice to see you again."

"Hello, Phoenix." She nodded at him, then proceeded to maneuver her brother onto the bench. He bent forward a little – and winced.

"Ow," He mumbled, prodding a bandaged rib. "Stupid Sneakers."

"What happened to you? You look like something a cat spitted out."

"Wonderful, what a mesmerizing description." Kazaf snapped. "Do me a favour and don't quit your day job – you'll make a rubbish author." He turned to look at his sister and summoned a bailiff with a snap of his fingers. This one recognized him, and couldn't break a leg fast enough to arrive by his side.

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

"Get me the court reporter please – and snap to it." He snapped his fingers again, and like magic the bailiff disappeared.

"You should treat your staff better, or they'll go on strike," Phoenix mused.

"They're not my people – they're Skye's." He retorted. "Eli-zaa-beth, please retrieve the record of the trial from the court reporter."

Elizabeth nodded, and retreated after the bailiff – but not before jabbing a finger into his chest. "Don't. Move." she accompanied each syllable with a jab. "If you keep moving around like that, your ribs are never going to recover."

Kazaf sighed. "Women."

"Muscle solidarity," Phoenix nodded sympathetically. "They never stop pestering us about good health, do they?"

He nodded, and before Phoenix could protest the wisdom of such an act, slipped down from the bench and limped towards Phoenix. "So, tell me. How's the trial progressing so far?"

"Eh...It's fine."

"It's fine?" He repeated – his voice shriller by the second. "It's fine? You mean I came all the way down here for 'fine'!? Where's all the drama?"

"Oh, that? You just missed it actually. Horny head was all sobs earlier." Phoenix chuckled. "Good performance on his part though – reminds me of an attorney I once knew."

"Kristoph's Tomato Lawyer? Why would he be crying?"

"Well..." Phoenix scratched his chin. "I guess you could say I got Kristoph into trouble – somewhat. He'll be testifying after this break – and what happens will depend on what his says...And let slip, of course."

Kazaf grinned and rubbed his hands together gleefully. "I haven't missed ALL the drama then. Good, good."

"You sound like a spectator at a stadium."

"Hey, why do you think I limped all the way here the moment the paramedic patched me up? For a dose of the judge's head?" He rolled his eyes at him. "I'm just here to um-yum up the drama."

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. "That's the reason you came down here? Can't you just read it from tomorrow's news?"

"What's the fun in that? And besides..." Kazaf tapped a finger on the side of his head – in imitation of a mutual acquaintance. "You could say I'm here to fool-proof things?"

Another eyebrow. "Oh? Gumshoe's attending trial?"

"Hah!" Kazaf let out a sharp bark of laughter. "The good detective is celebrating his good fortune – in the form of promotional ramen."

"Eh? He got a promotion? What happened to the laws of physics?"

"He got me there in once piece," Kazaf shrugged. 'You have him to thank for your evidence."

"I see – I must treat him to ramen then, and some free tickets to Trucy's show. And..." Phoenix looked at him. "You still haven't told me what you're REALLY here for."

The boy let out an exaggerated sigh. "Can't fool you can I? Very well – I'll come right out and say it." He smirked. "I'm here to watch – like I told you – and make sure nothing falls through."

"Meaning?"

"Isn't it obvious? It's not fun if the stakes aren't high enough – I like it better when it's all or nothing."

"You mean you're going to pressure the judge - or testify?"

Kazaf gave him a sickly sweet smile. "I have a price for everything – Phoenix Wright. I can be out there right now, testifying against Kristoph. I can blow your case away by having the forensics take down your evidence like a mosquito – but I don't, do you know why?"

"Drama, eh?"

"That's one reason. The other is that Kristoph and you are going to tear each other apart eventually anyway – I rather it be done in my jurisdiction – where I can do some fire-control."

Phoenix smiled – the kind he used to do when he had caught someone in their own web. "That's what you say – but in reality, you just want one of us behind bars so we can't rat on you, isn't it?"

Kazaf froze. "Don't be stupid – what do you have on me that I could probably fear?"

"Nothing...And maybe everything. I can dig up enough dirt on Kristoph to do some real damage – I can do the same to you to, isn't that what you're thinking?"

"Don't," He snapped. "- put me in the same league as that fool. I run the whole law enforcement web in the city – I can shut you down faster than you can press a key on your crappy piano."

He took a step backwards. "Don't get cocky, Phoenix Wright – you took down the old chief of police, and you took down the great vonKarmas – and now you're taking down the most celebrated lawyer in all of California. But -" He sneered. "-this trial isn't over yet – it can still swing either way – and if I were you, I'll watch carefully what I say to the only person who can break your case."

Elizabeth returned into the lobby, and with one last spat at the disgraced attorney, he allowed himself to be steered by his sister into the courtroom – where everything would take place, yet not be Armageddon – because there were no longer any shades of black and white in their picture perfect trial – only shades of gray clouded the canvas.

* * *

"The trial for the murder of Shadi Smith will now reconvene." The judge slammed his gavel onto the wood, marking the end of each's brief respite. People file into the courtroom – a crowd now significantly larger than it had been earlier, since word has spread out amongst the workers of the court and a few of them and some officers had arrived in the courtroom to witness the trial. After all, how often do you see a defense attorney accused by his own client of murder?

Apollo filed into the courtroom along with them, carrying his large bundle of files over to the defense's bench. They felt heavier than usual – perhaps because he was tired and just wanted the day to end – or because he was now carrying Kristoph's files too. He stashed the files into a corner of the bench. He highly doubt the usefulness of thoroughly prepared files in the trial to come.

"Is the defense and the prosecution ready?"

Payne nodded. Apollo nodded too – but this time, no blonde head nodded beside him, and the defense's bench looked a little lonelier without Kristoph.

"The defense is ready, Your Honour."

"Very well, will defense attorney Kristoph Gavin take the stand?"

The door leading towards the witness's lobby opened a fraction and an elegant loafer-ed foot stepped into the witness's stand – and if any criminal had been in the hall that day, surely they would have taken a feather out of Kristoph's book the next they appeared on trial – the man was unshakeable.

"Now then," The judge addressed the prosecution. "Mr. Payne, if you would?"

"Y-Y-Yes, Your Honour! Will Mr- Uh, I mean - Will the witness state his name and occupation?" Despite his (apparent) confidence when Kristoph was his adversary, Payne did not look like he would relish the chance to cross-examined Kristoph – to tell the truth, he looked rather pale, and Apollo smiled a little sad smile at that. Trust Kristoph to intimidate a man even in silence.

"Is this farce really necessary, Your Honour?" Kristoph flicked a flint of dust off his jacket.

"Believe me, far stranger things have gone on in this courtroom,"

Kristoph shrugged delicately. "If I must, I must."

"Now, as we left off earlier in the trial – we need to make something clear. How did you know about the state of the victim's head?" The judge asked, peering down from his seat at Kristoph, who merely shrugged again.

"Forgive me, but I fail to see why the court is so obsessed over the state of the victim's hair...Or lack thereof, as Mr. Wright there has explained." He smiled a winning smile. "I hardly see the significance of a little hair to the trial."

"Now, now Kristoph," A voice called out. "You know you're not getting off the hook THAT easily."

Apollo glared at Phoenix Wright, who had abandoned the defendant's seat for the defense's bench, stepping up onto the elevated area as though he had every right to belong there. A bailiff trailed after him, looking flabbergasted.

"What are you doing here?" He hissed at the man.

"Ah, things DO look better from this angle – and howdy Apollo. Nice view, isn't it?"

Apollo blinked incredulously at the man. "Are you nuts? You're the defendant – get back to your seat!" When the man made no inclination to move, Apollo summoned another bailiff and pointed at Phoenix.

"Take this man back to the defendant's seat please," He narrowed his eyes. "And make sure he stays there – he has no right to be here."

"Um, actually, he does." A sweet voice called out from above. Apollo looked up and saw a boy leaning over the edge of the stands, smiling a sickly sweet smile at him. "I gave him permission to be there."

"And you're...? The local caretaker's son?" Apollo suggested, sarcasm lacing his tone.

"Actually," The smile became even more impossibly sweet. "I'm the chief of police for L.A - Kazaf Devereux, at your service. Isn't that right, Mr. Judge?"

The judge clapped his hands together. "Ah! Kazaf! How nice to see you again!"

Kazaf inclined a head at him and waved the bailiff off. "He can stay on the defense's bench – provided he doesn't cause trouble, of course. That's acceptable, isn't it, Mr. Judge?"

"Of course!" The judge exclaimed. "Anything for you, my boy. What made you drop by today?"

"Oh, I was feeling a little down today – and I thought I'll come here to watch a trial or two. You know how much I love trials."

"Yes, yes – I remember you telling me all the time-- And I say, Kazaf- What happened to you? You look quite..." The judge leaned so far forward to quint at him that he almost fell out of the stand. "...Bruised."

"Oh this?" Kazaf fingered his purple cheek. "Altercation with a beast of iron, I'm afraid. But don't let that stop you."

He pushed himself off the side of the stand, and a lady Apollo didn't recognize helped the boy back into his seat. "Go on," He ordered, waving his uninjured hand expansively. "And it's always nice to see you again...Kristoph."

Kristoph inclined his head – and Phoenix confirmed his place on the defense's bench, ignoring a hostile Apollo. Instead, he chose to addressed Kristoph's earlier statement.

"You seem eager to dismiss the subject of the victim's head, Kristoph."

"That's because it's a pointless waste of my time – just like you," He smiled a sweet smile at the beanie'd head.

"Oh? Or perhaps it's because it reveals a lot about you?"

Apollo ignored Phoenix's comments and waved a hand in front of him in a rude motion to silence him.

"Mr. Gavin. We understand from the previous trial – from Mr. Wright's testimony and the present evidence that the victim's hat was only removed for a scarce fragment of a moment." He spoke in even tones, betraying nothing. "The hat fell off when the murder was done, and Mr. Wright placed the hat back on his head a moment later – and there is only one person who could have seen it, other than him."

"The killer, you mean to say," Kristoph supplemented smoothly, drumming a few fingers on the podium. "But of course, tell me again, Justice - what is that statement on yours based on?"

"Based on evidence, and testimony – just the way you like it."

"Ah, ah," He wagged a finger at him. "But that's the problem, isn't it? Who does the testimony come from?"

Apollo glared at him – he knew what was coming – he knew all Kristoph's slippery techniques in court like the back of his hand. Now he was going to claim that he was lying to protect himself – the last act of a cornered beast was to pin his crime on someone else, blabla."Mr. Wright, of course."

"That's right – and he's what, the defendant? He could be lying through his teeth to save himself!"

"Yes but--"

"No buts, Justice. You can't prove he's not lying."

"He swore on the bible--"

"And I can swear on the bible that little green men exists – but it doesn't make them more real. It's a book – and it's only effective insofar as the person who swears on it believes in it."

"That's ridiculous--!"

"That's what? Hard evidence, Justice – that's what I prefer, not your flimsy --"

"Um, excuse me," A knock sounded as a knuckle knocked lightly against the wood of the stand. Kristoph glared at Kazaf, who once again leaned out from the stand, one elbow placed on it to prevent himself from falling over onto Apollo.

"Is there something you wish to add?"

"Yes, actually. You seem to be hellbent on claiming that Wright is lying. Do you want me to drag in a polygraph? Maybe that will convince everyone in court as to the truthfulness of his statement?" He checked his watch, which he had clipped onto the fabric of his cast with a long chain of paperclips. "It'll take some time, but I can have it arranged. Will that satisfy you and hopefully, maybe, move this trial along?"

"What game are you playing at, Kazaf?" Kristoph narrowed his eyes at him. "And polygraphs cannot be submitted as evidence."

"Me? Oh no – I'm merely fulfilling my duty as chief of police. And yes you can use them as evidence since 2007 in California...Provided the 'chief of police' approves, of course."

"Very well," He snapped. "I can see you're going to oppose me to the end if I keep to this line of reason."

The midget smiled and retreated to his seat. "Damn straight. Move along, Kristoph – you're boring the hell out of me."

Kristoph merely smiled and chuckled - a sinister sound that reverberated in the quiet courtroom.

"...Mr. Gavin?" The judge cautioned. "Is there something you would like to share with us?"

"...It seems...I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with the court."

"Oh no! Another madman!" Payne moaned.

"Oh, I assure you, I had the noblest of intentions." He leveled a chilling smile at Phoenix. "I did it all...To protect my client – Mr. Wright."

A collective gasp gathered from the gathered spectators on the stand as the latest revelation came true – and Kazaf looked pointedly at the neighbour who had sneered at him earlier for the phone incident. The man was still looking flabbergasted at the thought of him being the chief of police.

"Kristoph..." Apollo growled through gritted teeth.

"Yet I afraid that given the present situation, I see little reason to hide anything. " He took a little exaggeratedly elegant bow. "If you will permit me to tell you the truth of what happened last night..."

Apollo leaned forward, determined to dig until he finds what laid beneath the muck – whatever it is he'll find there. This was his first step to finding out the truth about last night – starting with Kristoph's testimony.

"Please," He growled. "Do."

* * *

_And there's a guilty pleasure,_

_That cannot be measured –_

_This, baby, is where we take our stand -_

_Flying high, flying wild –_

"STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP!!"

Klavier yelled at the top of his lungs until his chords strained to be heard – but the rest of the members in his band showed no signs of having heard anything at all. He raised his microphone to his lips and shouted again.

"I said,_ STOP!"_

His voice, honed by hours of practice at law school and on the stage could raise the roof if it wanted to – and this time it did, though it took vengeance in the form of breaking his band mates eardrums. The drummer and bassist stopped mid-action and froze, staring at him through astonished frowns.

"Achtung! Nichts wird heute richtig!" He threw his guitar onto the ground – though he made sure it landed on a padded Styrofoam leftover from the stage props – wouldn't do to spoil his guitar now.

"Hey man – not all of us speak German." Daryan stepped closer to him, towards the center stage and dismissed the other two with an arrogant flick of his hand. They grumbled and swore, but climbed obligingly off the stage, leaving Daryan and Klavier the only ones on the brightly lighted stage – multicoloured lights swirling over them.

"Nothing's going right today," Klavier snapped, translating his own words. "That was the worst practice ever – the guitar doesn't sound good, the bassist's all out of tune – hell, even your guiter-playing is shitty."

Daryan narrowed his eyes threateningly at him and jabbed him in the chest. "Watch it, asshole – you're no golden boy yourself today – your voice was practically cracking at the edges."

"Go screw yourself."

"Fuck _YOU_ – what's up your butt?" Daryan spat out. "You're crankier than that brother of yours today."

Klavier glared at him, but before long, realized the truth of his words. Taking it out on his band members wasn't the way to go about it – it wasn't their fault that everything seems to be going wrong today – first his computer broke down, then his hog coughed up the act and had to be sent down to the autoshop. Not to mention that that performance he gave had to be the worst he had ever done. He raked a hand up his hair, letting them fall over his face.

"I don't know – I'm feeling all over the place today."

Daryan cocked an arrogant smile at him. "What, you didn't get laid enough last night?"

"Don't bring that up please," Klavier groaned. "My head's still all screwed from last night's hangover."

"That why you so asshole today? 'Cuz that's not cool man – not cool at all."

"Nah, you know alcohol isn't going to take me down." He sighed. "Don't know – just feels weird. Like that tingly feeling you get just before Geeter crashes on you."

"Oh," He winced. "That bad?"

"Yeah, that bad." He exhaled a shaky breath. "I feel like I should be doing you know, something more productive. Like maybe, go home and have dinner or something."

His friend stared at him like he was insane. "Dinner? With the geezers? What, your brother isn't stuffy enough company for you?"

"Naw...I dunno." Klavier gave a haphazard cross between a shrug and a spasm – like his body couldn't quite read the nerves correctly and make out the appropriate gesture. "I feel so weirded out. Maybe I'm just homesick?"

"Probably." Daryan looped an arm around Klavier and started steering him towards the backstage exit. "Look, we just go and get us some beer, okay? It'll make you feel better – police honour."

Klavier sniffed. "Your police honour didn't seem quite intact when you were hitting on every girl in sight last night."

"Aw, shut up man." Daryan bumped his head sideways at him playfully, and they walked off the stage, arm in arm.

* * *

"....When I look through the window the victim was dead – just as it shows in the photo. A bald, bleeding head, an unconscious girl and Wright, holding a bottle in his hands." Kristoph flicked his hair a little, his arm crossed and betraying only a slight smile. "I sensed that it was not the best time to be there, and so I left."

"B-But!" Payne was agape with outrage. "But that's concealing-- I mean- You're just being plain uncooperative with the police force!"

"Am I?" He tilted his head slightly to the right and scrutinized Payne with a cold smile. "For one, I never really saw the exact moment of the crime – for another, my firm was asked to DEFEND Mr. Wright – Even after seeing what I have, I cannot abandon a friend in need."

And just as simple as that, Kristoph had managed to paint himself as the nice guy, the loyal friend who never once abandons his friend in need. A few head bobbed in unison to him, and one shot Apollo and Wright an evil eye – as though asking them : How can you accuse such a nice person of a nature so devious?"

"So..." Apollo pressed his forehead with his index finger. "You never told anyone else what you saw – nor did you see another person at the scene of the crime."

"Excellent summary."

"But that's impossible," Apollo complained. "SOMEONE must have did it – if everyone says everyone didn't do it – what, Shadi Enigmar just dropped dead on his own?"

"Justice, I just told you I never told a single soul about what I saw." Kristoph let out a light sneer at Phoenix's general direction. "But oh, of course, the man right there has claimed that 'this fourth person' of his was the real – convenient – killer, didn't he?"

Phoenix sneered right back at him. "Glad we agree on something, Gavin."

"Let me pose a question then." With both elbows resting on the podium, Kristoph leaned forward – the picture of languid patience. "Tell me, why would this fourth person of yours swap the cards in the victim's hand? What possible reason would he have to do that?"

Phoenix scratched his jaw. "Eh...I'm stumped. Apollo, fill in for me, won't you?"

Apollo swallowed, nails biting nervously into the wood of the bench – it was now or never – he would have to present the forged evidence if he wanted to get to the bottom of this. If it backfires or it's found to be a fraud...His career would be destroyed before it even got a chance to get started. But then again...If the alternative was to lose his sanity over a case of doubts...

"Actually, new evidence has come to light that changes the defense's perspective as to why the card was swapped." He stated, a little shakily – Kristoph's eyes narrowed onto him.

"And that would be...?"

"It would be...This!" He brandished the bloodied ace like it was a prized trophy – and a collective gasp came from the audience._ Might as well give it some oomph!_

"Is that an...Ace?" Payne asked, squinting short-sighted eyes at the piece of evidence Apollo held. He passed it around the courtroom until it arrived on the judge's hand.

"Ah! But it has blood on it!" The judge pointed wildly at the card. "Right here! Right next to the spade."

"What!?" Kristoph's stance went rigid as he leaned forward to get a better look at the evidence. "But that's impossible!"

"That's insane! Why would the defense have that piece of evidence and I don't!?"

"This...This is the missing fifth ace?" The judge exclaimed.

"That's impossible!" Kristoph snarled. "There's no way you could have gotten that card!"

"Why is it impossible?" Phoenix interjected. "Don't you think that the only person who can claim such a thing..Is the person who took it?"

Taken aback, he stepped backwards. "But..." He muttered something under his breath – before regaining his composure. "I'm sorry to say, Mr. Wright – but I'm afraid that evidence is inadmissible to court."

"Oh? And why not?"

His sneer was back in place once again, and Kristoph crossed his arms with his usual politely disapproving smile – but this time, Apollo could tell from a glance that his mentor was nervous. "Perhaps you have heard of the rules of evidence?"

Apollo looked warily at him. "Yes...The first rule states that no evidence is admissible in a court of law unless- Ah! It's been accepted by the police department!"

"That's right – and pulling a fast one with the second rule isn't going to work either – If you want to prove the relevance of that card to the case, you'll need the lab report on it. After all, how can we be sure that it isn't just another old card with someone else's blood!?

Phoenix cringed – as though he never thought Kristoph would suggest...

"And I for one, wants to know for sure – whose blood is on that card?" He added slyly with a feline smile. "Or if it's blood at all. Given our knowledge of Mr. Wright's pedigree right there – it isn't so farfetched to imagine that that evidence was forged!"

Apollo gasped – if he insisted on the evidence being examined...Kristoph rove an eye until it stopped on Apollo – his face expressionless. If he insisted on the evidence be tested by the lab and it really turned out to be a forgery...Well, that was his career right there – he'll be disbarred for sure. After all, every attorney is supposed to be responsible for the evidence he presented..

A long silence reigned as the court waited for Kristoph's decision.

"But of course..." He added at last, looking away from Apollo. "You can proceed with the assumption that it's valid – I don't have time to waste on a lengthy examination."

Apollo breathed a sigh of relief and felt immediately bad for ever doubting Kristoph – who had possibly just saved his ass from being cooked. Beside him, Phoenix's enigmatic smile returned.

"Allow me to elaborate then, as to why the card was removed." He addressed the court. " Take another look at the photo of the victim – with his head tilted backwards."

"At the moment the crime is committed, his hat fell onto the ground and trickle of blood dripped from his forehead ran from his forehead down the back of his head. Couldn't the drop of blood have fell on the cards."

"I suppose..." Apollo hazarded – then gulped when he saw Kristoph's furious expression directed at him. Betrayal – it made him felt like a traitor – the lowest of the low.

"Yes, and that's why the criminal would swap the cards." His hands were stuffed into his hoodie pocket. "And that...Answers your question, doesn't it, Kristoph? You wanted to know why the killer would swap the cards – and I've provided you with--"

"Wait a second!" Apollo shouted beside him and he cringed, rubbing his ear. "But that's ridiculous!"

The judge's eyes widened. "Need I remind you, Mr. Justice that you were the one who submitted this piece of evidence?"

"Yes- but his allegation is just plain flawed! The victim was found facing the cards – if his blood had dripped, it would have been on the cards on the floor!"

"What's this!? The defense arguing against his own defendant? Abhorrent!" Payne screeched. Kristoph merely chuckled.

"Ah, but he speaks sense – Why Mr. Wright, I believe you have another question for you to answer right there."

"And it can be easily answered," He stated confidently. "Simple – he was facing the other way when the deed was done!"

"Oh?" Kristoph burst out with a hysterical note of laughter. "And what would he be doing staring at the wall? Admiring the scenery?"

"No? But it would explain the drop of blood wouldn't it?"

"I'm afraid that doesn't cut it – sorry, Mr. Wright." Apollo shook his head firmly at the man beside him. "The victim was hit from the front – if he was facing the cupboard and the wall – how did that even happen?"

"That's right!" Payne chimed in. "Or are you going to claim that the killer was hiding in the cupboard next!? Well that explanation isn't going to cut it! We've checked – and the layer of dust inside the cupboard is thick enough for a cake to be made out of it! There's no way anyone has been near it!"

Kristoph stood silently, and Phoenix scratched his chin. "Really now?"

"Actually...You all remembered that I told you that this room used to be used by mob bosses', don't you?"

"Yes..." Apollo agreed warily. What game was the man playing at this time?"

"Well, there's actually a hidden passageway behind the cupboard."

Voices raised throughout the court as the contents of the courtroom exchanged incredulous remarks over his statement and most shook their heads in disbelief in him. Apollo looked up, and spied the midget and the woman – who was shaking her head solemnly.

"Well! I never!" The judge exclaimed. "Is that true, Kazaf!?"

The midget smiled. "Why don't we see for ourselves? I'll have someone to check it out."

Somehow Apollo had a feeling that the chief – he still had trouble wrapping around the fact that someone younger than him was the chief police, he was expecting a bearded old man – already knew what the search would yield, but he complied with a nod anyway. "The defense will also motion for such a request, Your Honour."

"Yes...And one other thing." Phoenix reached up towards the stand and passed a note to the woman. "Get them to look into that too, won't you?"

Kristoph mere muttered darkly under his breath and Kazaf nodded – a serious expression on his face, at least for a few seconds. A few bailiffs were dispatched to the scene of the crime after a warning from Kazaf about needless touching, and the court sat on their hands while they awaited the results of the search. Apollo waited with them, his heart pounding in rhythm with the clock's second hand – at least twice per second.

* * *

Kristoph drummed his fingers nervously on the podium – though to the rest of the world he appeared like a tranquil statue – not particularly perturbed over the direction the case was taking – and indeed, they think to themselves, what had he to be nervous about? It seemed that he was right after all, and he wasn't really that related to the case anyway – was the general murmur from the crowd, not that it registered more than an iota in Kristoph's head.

His brain was far more preoccupied with more severe task – like figuring out exactly what else he had missed last night. He had been in such a hurry – no thanks to that woman and Phoenix having called the cops to deal with the whole assault incident. He had been pressed for time, and he hadn't had time to checked the area as thoroughly as he liked – and this was the result, potholes after potholes of mistakes he would never had made usually.

Why did the one time he slipped had to be the one time where an adversary smart enough to figure things out was around? He exhaled a little angry hiss of pent-up breath.

No matter – the card was not what worried him the most, what worried him the most was...He looked up and saw the person in question scrutinizing him coyly through heavy-lidded, gleaming eyes, curled around his sister like a kitten, with claws.

Noticing his returning glance, Kazaf's smile grew even wider, an even more feline.

_Scared?_ He mouthed softly.

_You wish._ Came the answering sneer – but they both knew it was a lie. As it stood now – even if he made any more slips, all he had to do was put on his best show in the appeal for his own trial and he'll leave, scot-free but if Kazaf spoke...

He lowered his eyes from the smug expression and homed onto Apollo instead. The boy – though he supposed he should call him a man now? He definitely proved his merit in court today, though he would always seem like a boy to Kristoph – was looking at him with unwavering eyes, exactly like how Phoenix used to look at people. Nowadays the man in question merely let his eyes dart around, like that of a reptile – but Apollo's reminded him of Phoenix, seven years ago.

Blank and expressionless was his face, but there was a trace of a sadness lingering in those same eyes. He managed a weak, hesitant smile at Kristoph, and Kristoph returned with a similarly weak and unconvincing smile – and father and son stood in the courtroom as though they were the only ones in it – interrupted only by the occasional whisper from members of the court – ones that neither heard anyway.

* * *

The door slammed apart with a decisive bang and Apollo looked up – feeling something akin to disappointment that the connection between Kristoph and him would be once again, severed. A scruffy-looking detective in a green overcoat hurtled into the courtroom, stopping only when he ran into the witness's stand.

Kazaf stood and cringed at the sight of the detective rubbing his head – colouring a little at the sight of his subordinate.

"Ah, Gumshoe – how goes it?"

"I have the report you wanted right here, sir!" He pulled out a thin crumpled bundle of hastily assembled materials that included several photos hanging off it and stretched upwards to hand it over to his boss – who received it with two outstretched fingers and a wince at his rib.

"Let's see here, Ho-hum."

"Well, don't keep us waiting!"

The boy smiled, and confirmed the statement. "It's true – there's a hidden passageway right behind the cupboard that can be moved aside with a cleverly concealed lever – one inside the cupboard and one behind it, in the passageway. Ingenious, this mob bosses. I should get one for the HQ too."

"A wormhole all the way to the first floor, perhaps?" Phoenix suggested with a raised eyebrow. "I remembered the office of the chief being pretty high up."

"Heh. I can always get parachutes if I want to – pays to be safe. People seem to hate my guts."

_Yeah, let's start with me. I hate your guts – you irritating brat. _Apollo kicked the bench a bit disgruntledly. Kazaf passed the crumbling file over to the judge, who retrieved the photos from the file and passed it around the court – indeed the photos were of a well-concealed passageway fitted perfectly behind the removed cupboard, which happened to...

Apollo's fingers froze.

"What...The hell?" He stared at the offending spot on the photo in his hands that it was a miracle it didn't burst into flames. Beside him, Phoenix chuckled, shoulders shrugging lightly as he went.

"Ah, you've noticed it too – haven't you?"

"Noticed what!?" Payne yelled from the opposite side of the court – for all purposes an ornament for the prosecution. "Stop huddling amongst yourselves in conspiracy!"

A muscle twitched in Kristoph's jaw as he was handed the photo too, and Apollo's pursed his lips in irritation. Another lie. How many of them will Kristoph spew before he finally told the truth? He was looking guiltier to Apollo with every passing second – a fact that another defense attorney would celebrate perhaps, but not him.

"Mr. Gavin – the court will appreciate it if you stop keeping things from us."

Kristoph gritted his teeth.

"It seems we find yet another contradiction in your testimony, Mr. Gavin – these things sure come commonly, don't they?" Phoenix asked the blonde head behind the witness's stand.

"What is this!? Someone, tell me what's going on!" The judge commanded, banging his gavel authoritatively on the gavel and looking expectantly at Apollo, who was silent.

"Allow me." The woman rose before the midget could and quickly scrawled a red circle onto a bird's eye view of the room, taken by a high-placed camera along with the photos of the of the passageway, and passed it over to the judge.

"Ah...Ah!"

"THAT'S what's wrong, Your Honour - If the cupboard was moved aside during the murder – just as Phoenix there has proven with the ace – the window from which our esteemed witness, Kristoph Gavin viewed the crime from...Would be rendered obsolete." Kazaf slid a coy glance at Apollo. "Isn't that right, Tomato?"

_T-Tomato!?_ Apollo thought indignantly. _Little miserable twerp, as if his day wasn't bad enough already..._

The boy turned his side to him, and faced the judge. "And that is all, Your Honour."

Phoenix directed his gaze at Kristoph, whose mask at last – was starting to show the slightest hint of cracking. "So, Mr. Gavin...Won't you tell the court – exactly where you witness the crime from?"

"Tch!" Kristoph's face rippled, and one lip raised in disdain.

"You see what simple deductive reasoning can lead us to, Your Honour?"

Apollo's fingers wrapped around the ace he had been handed and the evidence was crushed between them. He stared stonily at the judge and begin to recite the order of events that they had come to put together, secretly wishing with all his heart that Kristoph would say something – anything at all – to refute him – some kinda of contradictory evidence that would blow their case all the way to high heaven. At this point he didn't even really cared if he lost his first trial anymore – all he wanted to do was to go home with Kristoph and argue over where they're going for dinner.

But the law never wavers.

And so he spoke.

"At the time of the murder – the window was blocked. The victim's position is proved by the bloody ace and the swapped card. The only viable way he can be murdered is through the secret passageway. The victim's hat...Was only gone for a few minutes, between the time of happenstance and Mr. Wright's return to the scene. In other words, the only place where one could have seen the balding head of the gentleman in question...Is in the Hydeout."

Apollo bowed with the same dramatic flair Kristoph had taught him so well.

"I rest my case."

_Please, Kristoph. Say something won't you? You have something to contradict this – I know you do! _

But Kristoph remained stonily silent, face impassive.

"Hmm...Dare I ask what really happened last night?"

"Actually, at this point, I think we can just about figure out what happened." Kazaf spoke up after a long moment of silence reigned in the court. He allowed the woman to support him with an arm, and he limped forward to address the court. "That night, for whatever reason, our killer had a waltz with Mr. Smith – a waltz with the miserable mistress we call Destiny. He crouched in the secret passageway, holding his breath in the musty area...Waiting for his chance."

_Ahh!  
__God, why did you do that? Wait here...I'm going to get help._

"The waitress is down – and he hears footsteps from Wright, leading, as fate would will it – out. Mr. Smith waits down in the basement – but his time would soon come."

Phoenix nodded. "I went upstairs to call the cops, leaving Mr. Smith alone in the basement of the building – along with an unconcious dealer."

Expressionless, Apollo trailed after Phoenix's summary with dead-looking eyes leveled at the judge. "The killer steps out of the passageway – and Mr. Smith must have heard the sound of the cupboard being moved and turned around. That was when.." He swallowed. He couldn't say the word 'murder', he simply couldn't. He knew Kristoph was capable of attempting it – but despite nearly being on the receiving end of it himself, he couldn't...He couldn't bring himself to say the word 'murder' to his face.

"The killer did what Shadi Smith himself did to the dealer – fatally, and when the deed was done, he realized the drop of blood on the card that would unravel the world to the mystery of Who-Did-It." Kazaf filled in for him. "Too bad he didn't overstay his welcome – or he'd have realize that the cards on the floor – and the fact that they were red!"

Kristoph raised an expressionless face at the judge – expressionless in the same way as Apollo's.

The judge closed his eyes.

"It seems...That this trial has come to it's conclusion." He opened them again, and looked at Kristoph sadly. "I'm so sorry it has to come to this, Mr. Gavin."

"Oh, there's no need to apologize, Your Honour. I rather enjoyed myself."

"Your point, Mr. Gavin?"

"Frankly, I'm astounded that a man of your caliber, Your Honour, would miss the large maw in their case."

Apollo looked up. This was it! He must have an explanation ready! Something that would overturn all their assumptions! He leaned forward, ready to believe anything Kristoph said to the court.

"Is there something that still causes you doubt as to your own guilt?" Phoenix asked with a nonchalant eyebrow raised.

"Yes there is, actually. Tell me – how do you explain your fingerprints on the murder weapon? Or perhaps I premeditated it with a carefully constructed finger with your exact fingerprints and stamped it onto the bottle?"

"Ah..That." Phoenix smirked. "I knew you would resort to that as a last resort – the one thing about you, Kristoph Gavin, is that you can be far too predictable in court."

He looked up at Kazaf, who surprisingly was expressionless too, like a not-that-sad, but-still-sad mourner at a funeral. "Kazaf? Did your men retrieve what I mentioned in my note?"

"Yes," he answered simply. He raised a hesitant hand and gestured at the scruffy detective from earlier, standing in a corner. "Bring the bottle in, Gumshoe."

The detective retreated out of the courtroom to retrieve the bottle, and Kristoph forged on. "Now, what was that issue earlier? Ah yes, the fingerprints on the bottle were upside down. Tell me, under what condition would a person hold up a bottle upside down – if not to hit someone with it?"

Oh yeah! Apollo nearly cheered. That's right – how had he forgotten something so simple – Kristoph wasn't guilty after all! It must be- It must be- well someone else – He didn't care who.

But Phoenix had to interrupt his jubilant internal monologue. "Ah," He commented to the court. "See how the caught fish squirms to the last. Well, Apollo?"

"Well what!?"

"Why would someone conceivably raise a bottle upside down?"

"I don't know, " he snapped. "To brain someone?"

Phoenix gave him a look that was equal parts incredulous and pitying. He raised the courtroom's attention to the photo of him and Mr. Smith dining beside the piano instead. "This is why, Your Honour."

"Oh...Uh. Excuse me?" The judge blinked.

"The question Mr. Gavin has stated...Could be just as easily reversed : Why WOULDN'T a person hold a bottle upside down...When he's picking it up?"

"W-What—Oh of course! The bottles beside you – you must have grabbed on and then he –Of course!" The judge exclaimed.

Kristoph chuckled. "I see – and your proof of that happening would be...?"

"This, " Phoenix announced simply.

The bottle was brought into the courtroom and placed on the defense's bench.

"Recall our dinner that night, Kristoph." He said the moment it was carted in. "I was drinking my usual juice that night too. Let's put it simply for the court - you used some other bottle to hit Shadi Smith – one dusty from the passageway that you retrieved it from. You can't leave it there – too obvious. What bottle in the restaurant would gather such a thick layer of dust? And the glove prints? Far too noticeable."

"So what did you do?" He challenged him. "You took the only bottle in the room upstairs...And exchanged it for a bottle I picked up – one that you can be sure will have fingerprints – and with luck, upside down – and then you removed the real murder weapon – the bottle you found."

Voices discussing the revelation escalated to new heights of octaves – and the judge banged his gavel repeatedly to stop the sudden flow of conversation.

"Order! Order! Order!" He yelled.

"ORDER!" Apollo shouted – and just like earlier, his voice pushed them back into line – just like a military sergeant, Kristoph had once teased him before. He addressed Phoenix Wright, who had moved to stand in front of the defense's bench, bisecting the courtroom neatly into half. "You claim that Mr. Gavin switched bottles, but...Where's your proof!?"

Payne, not to be outdone, shouted back at him. "Make up your mind, rookie! Which side are you on!?"

"No?" Phoenix smiled. "Observe, everyone."

He raised a fist – and without a single word – brought it down heavily – smashing the bottle to bits. Pieces of glass stuck to his skin, but he didn't even seem to notice his own bleeding hand. Inside the shattered remains of the bottle was a single piece of crumpled card.

"That...What's that!?" The judge exclaimed.

"Recall that Shadi Smith had tried to prove that I was a 'fraud'. He planted a card on me – and would claim that I swapped it for the fifth ace."

"Y-You mean, that's..."

"Yes, that's right. As luck would have it – I slipped my hand into the pocket during the game...And found the card. And how did I disposed of it?"

"You..."

"That's right, I slipped into the bottle in the room at that time – and this bottle – was found in the crates!" He pointed a finger at Kristoph with a flair that Apollo would have admired had it not been Kristoph he was pointing at. "Does that satisfy you!? Proof! Proof that you did indeed exchange the bottles."

"The bottles were swapped...And the only person who could have done it that night was the fourth person." Two pairs of blue eyes – one deep blue, and one light blue, leveled at each other, like guns in a shootout – but the result was already clear. "You, Kristoph Gavin."

"You were the fourth person that night."

Silence.

Then Kristoph threw back his head and laughed in response – a shrill mocking laugh at the ex-defense attorney. "Is this your idea of revenge, Phoenix Wright?"

Phoenix was silent, merely stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets.

"Revenge...For what took away your badge seven years ago."

"My past is like my logic – straight and true. Nothing's changed." He said simply. "All I do, Is point the finger of justice in the right direction."

"...Very well." Kristoph smiled then, a blinding smile so often on his face. "I'm glad we could have this little tête-à-tête, Wright."

Without another word – or another glance Apollo's direction, Kristoph surrendered himself to the two bailiff that had walked up to him on Kazaf's orders and walked out of the room unaided with the two bailiffs trailing after him – a little incredulous over the whole situation.

The judge swallowed, nodded and raised his gavel. He looked at the assembled parties as though he was apologetic for what had just happened in court, and announced - solemnly, gravely, like a priest. "...I suppose that wraps up our trial. As much as it saddens the court for a day like this to have arrive, I will have to decree that the defendant, Phoenix Wright--"

But he never got around to announcing the verdict – at least, not while Apollo was in the courtroom anyway, because Apollo had left - running after the man who had disappeared into the witness's lobby.

* * *

"Kristoph, wait!"

The doors connecting the rooms swung shut, and Apollo was greeted with the warmth darkness. It was already evening then – and the skies had already clouded over and the witness's lobby, with it's lights switched off, was dark and somber, made more so by a heavy velvet curtain pulled over the only window.

Kristoph turned around, and Apollo rushed up to him – adrenaline pumping, but he felt nothing – not even a little tired, because he was beyond little obstacles like that.

"Yes?" Kristoph asked. "What do you want?"

"Kristoph..." Apollo trailed off, not quite sure himself what he had wanted to say. But one thing was certain – he wanted to talk to Kristoph. About whatever. As long as he could hear his mentor and father's voice again.

"Mhmm?" He peered at him.

"I--" But words faltered, and words failed him, and he found himself staring into the dark at Kristoph. "I just wanted to ask you--"

"The time for questions is long over – I believe you have asked enough of them for a day?"

"...I guess it is, isn't it? I just wanted to tell you - I'm sorry. For what happened out there."

He smiled – but this time, it was a little venomous one. "Don't worry about it Justice – I would have put you in jail in a thrice too – if I thought it'll help my case."

Apollo blinked and swallowed, fighting back tears that suddenly pricked at his eyes. So that was it? That was what he truly meant to him? Another factor to his heartless equation?

"I...I see." He managed to choke out.

Unable to see the tears because the room was so dark, Kristoph shrugged. "I think this means auf wiedersehen, Justice. See you at my appeal, hmm?"

He leveled a cold, disdainful eye at Apollo and without another word, he walked off again, wrists enchained by handcuffs – already a different man from when he entered this courtroom that morning - never once looking back at the boy he left behind.

* * *

And yes...That's it. You guessed it, we're nearing the end of the mist - only two more chapters to go – a short end of chapter fourteen and the Wrap-it-all-up chapter – chapter 15. It's indeed time to say auf wiedersehen...To Kristoph and Polly – Auf wiedersehen! xD


	18. Part Five, Payout

Note : If you accuse me of OOC then, well – all I can say is this : If things were different, then things would be different. What life throws at us is what makes us, forms us. And what life gave us, becomes us.

* * *

**Part Five : Payout**

The strings of Klavier's guitar snapped into two – the way cheap spaghetti snaps into two when you play around with it or twiddle it around your fingers – and Klavier's temperament snapped with it too.

"What's it with today!?" He yelled, and the guitar fell onto the ground with a large twank as he dropped it onto their rehearsal hall's stage. The microphone placed inside the guitar to amplify the beauty of it's wooden music let out a high pitch scream in protest and for a moment the stage speakers let out nothing but a long blast of static. "Jeez!"

"The whiny musician thing ain't gonna cut it this time Klavier – what's your excuse for busting the rehearsal again?" A band member called out, scowling at him.

"I'm not giving excuses – that part just now was plain sucky!"

"No, Klav – YOU'RE plain sucky – what's up with you today?" Nail, the bassist, spoke up. "You've been acting all distracted today."

"Aw, shucks man – he's all screwy since he sent Daryan out on a nutjob today."

"Jeez," Nail wrapped his bass up in a case and snapped it shut – giving it a gentle kick into their storage box for all their props. "What, you miss your toyboy already?

"Shut it, Nail." He fairly wrung his hands as he peered out of the partially closed curtains every five seconds or so to see if Daryan was back yet. The stage thumped a few times with the impatient footsteps of the drummer making his exit and a few moments later, Nail appeared by his elbow with his stage prop case slung over his shoulder.

"I'm out of here – Klav. When you're actually IN the mood to practice – gimme a holler,"

"You'll show up?" Klavier shot back at him – sceptical that his band mate would let such a slur against their egos slide easily.

"Sure I will, if you get down between my legs and beg. I'm off man – over and out." He jumped down the stage with one smooth move and bobbed out the hallway through the side entrance – usually reserved for staff during their shows. Klavier sighed and started tossing his belongings into his bag.

_Sending Daryan out is the last thing I want to do to, trust me. Especially to find out something like this._

A cellphone went into the bag too, and he moved in, sealing the bag up and slinging it across his back in preparation to leave – before distance footsteps echoed in the empty hall. He turned around, and sure enough – a moment later Daryan and his carefully groomed hair appeared at the doorway.

"Daryan!" The bag fell on the ground, forgotten, as Klavier took long quick strides towards Daryan. He wasn't even halfway towards him before impatience got the better of him. "What's the news?"

"Not good, Klav – it sure as hell is not good."

"What the hell does that mean? Out with it."

"I looked into the rumour for you." Daryan thrust a file into his hands and Klavier nearly dropped it in surprise. "That just came in from Kaz."

Klavier quickly flipped through the file – and his blood stopped cold at the case summary – his eyes homing in on one word and one word alone – Kristoph Gavin, and beside it, in bold heavy font were the words : Defendant.

"You asked Kaz? Did he said anything 'bout the case?"

"Naw, I asked him but you know how he is – he goes all apeshit on you and clams up."

"Shit," Klavier swore. "I still can't believe the rumours are true – why on earth would Kristoph end up on trial?"

"Damned if I know. You wanna jet back to the states?"

"Hell yeah – I'm gonna get to the bottom of this if I have to raise the roof of every courthouse in the bloody states. THEN I'm going to screw whoever did this to Kristoph." He bit out. He glanced up at Daryan for a moment. "Did Kaz tell you who's responsible for sticking him behind the defendant's seat?"

"Yeah, that was the only thing he agreed to tell me, actually." Daryan smoothed a hand over his hair. "Wonder why."

"Well, don't keep me waiting – who is it?"

"Dunno, some kid name Apollo Justice – strange name if I ever saw one."

Klavier's blood turned cold. "What did you say his name was?" He wanted confirmation – not that there was anything wrong with his hearing but...It couldn't be could it? Wasn't Apollo Justice that kid...

"Apollo Justice."

"Damn," He swore again, and the file nearly became a crumpled heap of papers in his hands. "Damn. Damn. Damn."

"You know him?"

"No – but my brother does – and...You sure he's the one who stuck Kristoph on the seat?"

Daryan nodded, hair bobbing along with his head. "Yeah – at least, Kaz said so, and I don't think he'll lie about something as dumb as this."

How on earth did that come to pass? Wasn't Apollo Justice the kid that his brother had visited at the hospital – the one who had all his brother's knickers in a bundle? He thought he was his adopted son! Strange as the notion is to Klavier thought, of course. After all, the kid can't be a year or two younger than him. What on earth had soured their relationship so much that they now resorted to a verbal war in the courtroom.

"Damn," He climbed back up onto the stage and retrieved his cell phone, immediately barking orders to get his secretary at the prosecutor's office he was currently serving under to book him tickets back to the states. When he was done, the cell phone returned to the heap that was his bag.

"I'm going back to the states," He announced.

"Gonna get your brother out of hot soup?"

"Yeah," Klavier crushed the file with one stiff hand. "And if I can't – the kid's going down – I'm going to screw him so badly he'll get on the stage and announce my brother a saint."

'What about the concert with Lamiroir?"

"Can it! Kris comes first!"

There was no way in hell his brother was a murderer – it was either a mistake or a mistake or a mistake. And Klavier wasn't going to admit any other possibility, to anyone – period.

* * *

"Sir, the trial will begin shortly, please take your place in the courtroom."

Apollo looked up distractedly at the bailiff and nodded, covering his paperwork with one hand as he slipped the other hand into his briefcase to retrieve the court record for the trial of Phoenix Wright – which would come in handy for the appeal that would start soon. Slipping the file out, he removed everything he needed, store those he didn't – and stood up. It was time for the trial.

He followed the bailiff into the courtroom solemnly and took his place at his usual spot on the defense's bench, looking startlingly lonely without the presence of the usual blonde head. He took a quick glance at the courtroom – and found it to be a lot more packed than it had been for the trial for Phoenix Wright – clearly, everyone in the legal circles wanted to see what would happen to the great Kristoph Gavin. The precocious brat from the other day was here too, conversing with a bailiff and leaning casually against the witness's podium. He spotted Apollo and shot him a quick grin and waved an unbandaged arm. Apollo returned a glare.

Various faces familiar to him filed into the courtroom – the judge for one, and Prosecutor Payne, today in a startling fluorescent green coat. Several lawyers that had known Kristoph attended the trial too, but from the sneers on their face as they sat themselves on the stands – Apollo could tell they had no kind word for Kristoph, unlike he himself - who didn't know quite well where he stood.

He had dark eye circles, having stayed up for all three nights since the trial of Phoenix Wright and it's not guilty verdict – hardly getting enough shut-eye to justify sleeping at all. He had tried to think of something, anything at all, other than the trial. He had tried to think of his now officially unemployed status – Kristoph's associates hadn't wasted time in firing him. He had tried to think of his future – but no matter where his thoughts roamed, it always roamed back to Kristoph. Kristoph and the trial. Kristoph and what he did. Where was Kristoph? How was he? Was he angry at Apollo? Probably. Had they notified him about the trial, or gave him files to browse? He knew how Kristoph gets when he doesn't have files to browse through. He starts snapping at people and twirling his hair and –

"The court of appeals for Kristoph Gavin is now in session." The judge announced, and slammed the gavel down. The crowd in the stands were boisterous and restless, but nonetheless two bailiffs slammed the doors closed, as is customary, and Payne – who looked lighter in the hair department since a few days ago stood to attention as the judge's gaze fell on him.

"Ah...The Prosecution isn't ready, Your Honour."

"Hmm? What's the meaning of this, Mr. Payne? What's wrong with the prosecution?"

"Eh I-I, that's to say that they've just notified me that--"

Kazaf cut in, strolling over the prosecution's bench with a noticeable limp. "What he means to say Your Honour, is that the prosecutor responsible for this case has changed in the last minute."

"The last minute!? Really?" The judge peered at the court. "By who? I haven't seen anyone!"

"Ah..." He blinked. "Nevermind."

"So...Who's the prosecutor? And why is he so late?"

"Hmm. Indeed. Payne," Kazaf snapped his fingers rudely in front of the senior's face. "Go see if your replacement's in."

"Now, see here – I know you're the chief, but I'm a prosecutor, I don't have to listen to you--"

"Go!" Kazaf yelled in his ear and Payne took off towards the exit, rubbing his ear.

"Kazaf! Please, be more respectful to your elders." The judge admonished. He responded by rubbing his hands together gleefully.

"Sorry, I'm just excited over the trial." He winked at Apollo. "Aren't you?"

"Not really," Apollo mumbled, and returned to his paperwork. When in doubt – check the paperwork. That was a Gavin creed too. A few moments later the door opened again – and this time a woman with brown hair and a red muffler walked into the room.

"Lana," Kazaf nodded at her happily, leaned up against her cheek and gave her a light peck. "Always so nice to see you."

"The sentiment is returned," The woman nodded at him, and looked up at the judge, who was staring at her with a godsmacked expression.

"Chief Prosecutor Skye!" He exclaimed. "What brings you here?"

"Ah well...Kazaf requested that I stand in for Payne today – he's not feeling quite up to the colour."

"But he was just in a moment ago! He looked quite fine to me."

The woman – the chief prosecutor, Apollo surmised from the conversation merely smiled and took her place on the prosecution's bench. She looked hard – seasoned – as well as a Chief Prosecutor should be, he supposed – and for the countless time again today, he wished Kristoph was by his side.

"So! Is the prosecution ready this time around?"

"Yes, Your Honour," The boy chimed. Apollo nodded.

'Very well! Bring in the appealing party!" The gavel smacked against the wooden surface, and a moment later, the door to the defendant's lobby opened. A bailiff preceded the party, like a solemn guide for a black parade, and following after him – Kristoph Gavin, looking remarkably unchanged since the last time he saw him a few days ago. A light smiled played on his lips, and he smiled it at the court in general – refusing to meet Apollo's – or indeed anyone else's eye. The bailiff guided him over to the defendant's seat and there he stood.

"Mr. Gavin...I'm truly sorry that it has to come to this."

"Don't worry, Your Honour. Please, proceed. I have this book I absolutely must be getting back to in my cell."

"Ah, of course! I recall that the jail library is quite well supplied."

_You've been to jail before?_

Apollo caught Kazaf's eye – and evidence of the same thought came in the form of laughing eyes and a pursed lip. He winked at Apollo.

"Of course, this is rather sudden – I heard that you haven't been briefed about this appeal?"

"If you call an hour in advance briefing at all."

Kazaf smirked. "Soooo sorry, Kristoph. Must be a paper shuffler's fault – you know how things are."

"Of course," Kristoph inclined his head sideways with a little poisonous smile.

"And your defense is...Ah! Mr. Justice!" The judge exclaimed, noticing Apollo for the first time. He frowned at the offending person – as though Apollo's very existence was a great puzzle he absolutely must solve. "You- Are you sure, Mr. Gavin? Wasn't he--"

"The one who has put me in this little dilemma?" Kristoph tilted his head. "I believe so."

The words were calculated to be equal parts hurtful and equal parts reminding, and it did a good job of both – Apollo's gut twisted in answer to the words.

"And you want to put your fate in this greenhorn...Why?" The judge still looked puzzled, and some in the stands shook their heads mockingly at Kristoph too. Apollo could catch a whiff of indiscreet whispering from the stands directly behind him.

"_...Such a fool, trusting such an incompetent.."_

"_...Wouldn't it have been better to represent himself..."_

"_...Hah! He must want desperately for a long sentence..."_

"_...Perhaps he can't afford a better lawyer? How disgraceful..."_

His jaw clenched. "I assure you, Your Honour – the situation is not something I chose either. Unfortunately, Kristoph hasn't had enough time to find another attorney, seeing as he's been informed in the last moment, and he doesn't wish to represent himself." He looked around the courtroom, as though daring someone to stand up and object to his statement – so that he could put a fist through said person for a little stress relief. "And here I am."

The truth was, no one else wanted to represent Kristoph – after all, who wanted to defend a doomed attorney and had their reputation sullied? - and the man had only reluctantly informed him to attend the trial at the very last minute – quite literally so. The key word here was 'inform'. Not request, not ask, not hire. He had merely informed him in a message that his presence would be required in the trial, and like an obedient puppy, he had followed the instruction to the T.

"Alright." The judge blinked again at Kristoph. "And you're alright with this?"

"I _hired_ him, Your Honour." Kristoph growled out of gritted teeth. "I would think I'm alright with someone I hired, don't you think?"

The gavel came down again. "Alright! If that's all – The prosecution's statement please?"

"Of course, Your Honour." Skye stood to attention. "...This man we have in front of us, is a defense attorney, a supposedly defender of the weak and innocent – yet he has commited a crime even more heinous than that of those whom he has sworn to defend. He has been tried, he has been charged, and now we must determine his sentence..."

Apollo listened with half a ear.

* * *

_It had been right after he returned to the house after the incident with the poison, and he had been sitting on the bench right outside their apartment and taking a rare moment to admire the little garden – groomed by the residents of their block. He had noticed a caterpillar on the ground – a rare sight in New York these days, and had drilled holes into it with his gaze, observing it's every movement seriously, the only way he knew._

_He had been so caught up with staring at the little worm that he hadn't noticed the scrunching of the leaves on the ground until the last moment, and Kristoph appeared beside him._

"_Apollo," He smiled at him. "I see you're daydreaming again."_

_Apollo blushed to the hairline. "How did you find me?"_

"_I looked out of the window, silly," Kristoph teased his hair. "You're not exactly inconspicuous, with that hair of yours."_

"_R-Really?" He stammered. "I thought I blended quite well into the ground."_

_Kristoph laughed, and gestured at the spring ground, which was soft and luscious with the smell of fresh mud drifting deliciously through the air. "You blend well enough, I'll give you that – but unfortunately, your shirt isn't the same colour as your hair."_

_Apollo blushed and resolved the problem by staring at the caterpillar again. Kristoph noticed the line of his glance and reaching down, swooped the caterpillar out. Thinking he was going to kill the bug, Apollo reached out a hand to stop him._

_"Don't!"_

"_Hmm?"_

"_What are you doing with it?" Apollo asked, suspicious. "You're not going to kill it, are you?"_

_Because that was what Kristoph always did with cockroaches, albeit after screaming a hell lot first._

"_Oh no, I have quite a fondness for caterpillars." Kristoph chuckled, and the caterpillar wiggled on his finger._

"_You? Like bugs? Who are you and what did you eat Kristoph with?" _

_Kristoph prodded the bug gently, and put it back onto the ground, stepping back a little to allow it free space._

"_I think they're really beasts to be admired."_

"_Caterpillars? I dunno, unless you count cellulose consumption a virtue." Apollo kicked a tiny leaf over at the caterpillar. It drifted soflty done and landed on the caterpillar, and a moment of wiggling ensued._

"_No, really." Kristoph knelt down, and like Apollo, scrutinized the bug. "They're little creatures – lowest of the food chain, and with no redeeming qualities. They're so normal they're almost bland and yet..."_

_Apollo stared dreamily off at a tree._

"_Yet someday, they'll grow yet – into a butterfly, one of the prettiest beings around in the universe. Don't you think that's something of a merit in itself?" He spoke softly, fingers grazing lightly on the ground beside him. "No matter how lowly it's origins, it somehow manages to make it's way to the top – to blossom into a fully fledged beauty."_

_Apollo smiled at the dreamy look on Kristoph's face._

"_Yes, it is, isn't it?" He looked thoughtfully at the worm. "But butterflies die really soon though, once they're all grown up."_

"_Ach, you're such a killjoy." Kristoph ruffled his antennas, and Apollo squeaked in protest. "Tells you that pretty things don't last long, hmm? Now come on, it's getting dark."_

"_Okay. Chinese take out time then."_

"_Apollo," Came the exasperated groan. "Is food all you ever think of?"_

_Apollo laughed and hit him on the shoulder._

* * *

"Mr. Justice! Mr. Justice!"

Apollo's head snapped up almost comically, like a winded bow suddenly becoming unstrung. He blinked. Once. Twice. Three times - at the bright fluorescent lights above him, then when they refocused, he aimed them at the opposite bench, where his gaze naturally fell. Lana Skye was leaning backwards, against the stand with a crossed expression, and the midget who had called him a tomato was leaning forwards instead, feline smile as usual on his face.

"Ah-ah," he wagged a finger at Apollo – who felt like pulling it off and shoving it down the annoying brat's throat. "Caught you daydreaming, Tomato~" He sang out.

"Mr. Justice! What is the meaning of this!? Daydreaming in the courtroom is worthy of a double penalty in itself!"

"But..." Apollo was looked up confusedly at the belligerent judge. "We're not in trial. This is an appeal."

The judge was flabbergasted. "I- Well! You're still not supposed to daydream in court!"

Apollo blushed. "My apologies, Your Honour. I was ah, thinking about stuff."

"Well, stop thinking then!"

_I wish I could,_ he grimaced internally. He slipped a glance over in Kristoph's direction – almost shyly, but the disgraced man was staring resolutely at the wood beneath the judge's seat.

"So...Can we continue?" Skye snapped, directing her glare at Apollo, like he was the one at fault. Well, it technically was, anyway.

"Yes," He answered meekly.

"Now, as I was asking Mr. Justice here...Do you have anything to add to the appeal – in refute of the prosecution's summary of the charge?"

"Ah yes, there's well um, mitigating circumstances."

The judge nodded. Claiming there was mitigating circumstances was part of the package deal of an appeal, and Apollo shuffled frantically in an effort to pinpoint a mitigating circumstance.

Oh God. What was he going to say? No Your Honour, the wasn't actually Mr. Gavin that night – it was his evil twin brother who brained some guy and pinned it on him. Or um. Maybe he was on drugs. Yes that would explain it!

Not.

Okay, so how about the standard lawyer trick? Mr. Gavin was raised in an unhappy home, with irresponsible parents (So sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Gavin senior.) and thanks to them, has grown up all screwed up. So you see, your honour, that isn't his fault after all – it's a, excuse me, Mistake Of A Diseased Line – of a generation of unhealthy growth that leads to the blasphemous acts against God, which is in no way the fault of my client. While I'm at it, can I file for not guilty on the grounds of insanity too?

His palms started sweating as he moved the papers around – hoping that some paper would suddenly appear, with the words 'Mitigating Circumstances.' written on it, preferably with bold. He could feel the collective glares of the people in the courtroom and he started sweating. How the hell was he going to--

Lana Skye looked ready tell him off when someone cut her off.

"Excuse me, Your Honour?"

Apollo looked up, and the collective glances swung with his – towards the glassed man.

"There are no..." Kristoph tilted his head and smiled. "Mitigating circumstances. At all."

Silence.

"I'm an evil man who killed a man – isn't that enough for the court?"

"What is this? Mr. Gavin, is this court to take that as a confession?"

"The court has already proven me guilty, Your Honour. Confessions or not isn't going to make much of a difference."

"I ah...Alright then. So if there are no mitigating circumstances, then we'll have to confirm the exact sentence the police department is pressing for."

"Oh, I have it right here – Your Honour." Kazaf chimed, holding up a huge, neatly typed and bundled file. "The police department is charging Mr. Gavin right there with First Degree Murder, one count. Voluntary manslaughter, one count."

"Objection!" Apollo yelled. At last, he'd spotted something to dig a hole in the ribs of the prosecution. "Excuse me – but how can you charge Mr. Gavin with BOTH first degree murder AND voluntary manslaughter?"

"Why not?" Kazaf blinked at him.

"If you're charging him with first degree murder – you're saying that this crime is premeditated. I don't refute that, seeing as we have no evidence either way as to the intention of the committed murder – but voluntary manslaughter is a crime that is committed without prior intentions! BOTH the crimes you are charging him with contradicts each other!"

Kazaf stared down at his files. A sheepish grin spread through his face, and he blushed. "Um, I guess. Sorry, I must have read the book wrongly."

"Kazaf! You can't just do this kind of things on your own! It's to be handled by the prosecution!"

"I ah..."

"Idiot! I can't believe you just typed out the file yourself!" Skye hissed at the midget, and Apollo enjoyed seeing the boy squirmed.

"I'm _sorry_ I tried to make your workload lighter," he snapped back defensively. The judge slammed the gavel to stop the both of them into entering an argument, and the whispers begin on the stands again.

"Alright – now clear it up! What exactly are you charging him with?"

"First Degree Murder, Your Honour." Skye called out authoritatively.

"Objection!" Apollo yelled again. "It's not a premeditated crime!"

"Didn't you just say you can't determine either way? Where's your proof it isn't?" She snapped back.

"He used a bottle provided by the passageway to kill the man – if it was premeditated, don't you think he would have brought something more substantial as a weapon?"

"Perhaps he found the bottle a more suitable weapon--"

"I say! This is a court of appeals, Mr. Justice, Ms. Skye – it's not a trial! We're only here to determine his sentence, not--"

"Yes! But now they're charging him with a ridiculous crime that they can't prove! I'm merely trying to stop them from pinning down an unfair crime on my client!" Apollo protested, waving a file exasperatedly in an effort to make the judge see his way.

"Alright, alright. Very well then, I can see you two are determined to debate the crime charged to the end. Do so then, but keep in mind that this is an appeal – any proceedings on the crime itself will not be tolerated."

Lana Skye nodded, and directed a disdainful, arrogant glance at the rookie defense attorney struggling on the ropes to defend the same mentor he convicted – and Apollo tried his best to stand her up to her. His best, and then some more.

* * *

"It's time for the departure of flight number 174. Passengers, please board the plane through the 3rd gateway."

The speakers crackled a little, as they were wont to do in airports. The smell of baggage filled the air – a tangy aroma of leather against leather, smothered for a long period of time. The smell of careworn baggage and the slightest ting of disgruntled passengers disembarked from the plane to make way for their newer counterparts and Klavier drifted along with them, like a stick on water, dragging his heavy luggage with him. The wheels bumped onto the tiles a little and got stuck in one of the larger cracks on the floor. He pulled harder – he had no time for this kind of crap.

"Klavier, hey!" A voice called out from behind. Klavier didn't look back, only moving forward. "Hey man!"

He stopped short, and Daryan's hair crashed into him from behind. "What?" He snapped, continuing his movement the moment Daryan caught up with him, slightly out of breath.

"Just wait a while – it's not gonna kill!" A hand shot out to grab him by the elbow and Klavier turned around, ready to hit Daryan if that was what it took to free himself of the annoying bastard.

"What is it? In case you didn't notice – it's already time to board the plane."

"Look man – I just wanted to tell you – Keep your nose out of trouble, kay? Don't just dive in like a freaking bull."

"_YOU'RE_ telling me to stay out of trouble?" Klavier let out a crack of sharp laughter. "I don't think you have any right to tell anyone else to act more responsibly."

"I know! Just, I've been thinking, see-"

"Don't," Klavier snapped. "You'll hurt your brain."

He turned around to leave, but Daryan's hand shot out again to stop him. He turned back, teeth gritted in a gnashing effort to yell at him when a fist swung at him, knocking the living daylights out of him.

"Fuck!" He shouted, stumbling. "What the _fuck_ was that for!?"

"For being an asshole! I'm just asking for 2 minutes of your time – that too much to ask for?"

Klavier straightened up, glaring at the taller man. "What do you have to say? If you're going to stop me from going back to the states, it isn't going to work – I'm going back and that's _final_."

He said the word 'final' with such a final air of finality that they had no doubt that it was indeed, as final as final ever was.

"All I'm saying is – check out the facts, dude. I know you love your brother, but the thing is, let's face it – the dude's kinda creepy."

"My brother is not creepy!" Klavier yelled, eliciting a few curious glances from their neighbours. "And if all you're going to do is stand there and insult my brother – I'm leaving."

"I know, I know, jeez! Look, just investigate before you go all ballistic – okay? I know how you're like when you're pissed – you go all apeshit crazy on people, and that's not cool man."

"So...What? What are you trying to say?"

"Investigate. See if your brother's really a murder--"

Klavier punched him – right on the mouth, and Daryan stumbled backwards, hitting the ground with a thud.

"My brother is not a criminal." Klavier hissed at the fallen man. "He's not a criminal." He repeated again, more forcefully this time. "The only crime I see being committed is by that ungrateful bastard – Apollo Justice. And when I find him – I'll commit a crime too. On him."

"Klavier! Man you're--"

"--Pissed. That's what I am. Pissed. Just shut the hell up, Daryan – because my brother isn't a murderer, and that's_ final too_."

He stomped off, dragging his luggage off and disappearing into the rapidly thickening crowd as passengers both boarding and leaving flooded into the airport – at a crossroads where people rushed mindlessly both ways to reach for some obscured goal. Thirteen hours, he swore. Thirteen more hours, and he'll find out what's happening back in the good ol' states. And if it comes down to it – he'll have a good ol' shootout too.

* * *

"Which is why – the only logical conclusion – is that you should charge him with voluntary manslaughter!" Apollo yelled, slamming his palms faced down on the table.

Kazaf looked incredulous. "Uh, hello? Aren't you suppose to deny that he's guilty in the first place?"

"Well – all I'm saying is that, if you're going to charge him with anything at all – let it be voluntary manslaughter!"

"Ridiculous. Apollo Justice – I fear your name doesn't do you justice. You're definitely far dimmer than a Sun God!"

"H-Hey! Objection!"

"That's enough!" The judge roared down at the courtroom, which by now had rapidly deformed into an unshaped crowd. People spilled from the seats and the benches were crowded with lawyers and reporters who had bribed their way into the courtroom – all wanting a juicy piece of Kristoph Gavin. The volume rose with crowd – and now the two sides could hardly be heard anymore above the uproarious sounds from the crowd.

He glared at them until they were silent. "Alright, the prosecution is charging the defendant with voluntary manslaughter, one count, and assault, isn't it?"

"And destruction of property," Kazaf mouthed sulkily.

"Hey! I said--"

The judge waved a hand to silence Apollo. "I think we get the idea. It's almost time for lunch, and we will adjourn for a brief recess. When we return, the court, as well as both the prosecution and defense will submit the suggested sentence, the period – and I will hand down the decision." He gave Kazaf and Apollo the evil eye. "And all this is to be done...Before lunch! Do you understand me!? No more throwing files!"

"He started it!" Kazaf shouted.

"Contempt of court!" Apollo yelled back.

"Brief recess! Now!" The judge roared. The crowd rose dutifully, with an undertone of murmuring. Many shot glances at Kristoph – unsure glances that didn't quite know whether or not to be pitying or mocking. One by one, they filed out of the court, even as the judge removed himself into the judge's chambers. Prosecutor Skye left, and two bailiffs walked in to escort Kristoph out of the by now lonely lobby. Kazaf followed shortly after Kristoph, and Apollo was left in the courtroom.

_It's just you and me now, paperwork._

He heaved a sigh and started piling his paperwork into his briefcase – glad at least that it gave him something to do with his hands and glad that the trial gave him something to do with his mind. It had managed to keep his mind out of the feelings of betrayal and guilt that till now, still continuously swirled at the bottom of his stomach – like killer butterflies in his stomach.

He was halfway done with the cleaning when his hand froze on one particular file. The case summary and trial report for Kristoph's trial – for the murder of Shadi Smith from earlier. Apollo had retrieved it from a belligerent down-on-his-luck attorney that had defended Kristoph for that case, solely because there really wasn't much to be defended. After all, the case was fool-proof – everything had been proven in the trial for Phoenix Wright, the trial was merely a mockery – a prove to the system that the system had been followed.

Apollo hesitated. He knew how much Kristoph liked files. He had an obsessive file-keeping disorder, and half his shelves were filled completely with files. And this was his file too – a file of his very own trial. And they probably wouldn't give Kristoph a copy, - at least, not the privileged one - since he was no longer an attorney and therefore not related to the case. At least, not in that way.

_Should he?_

He probably should. It wasn't much...He swallowed. But it was something. A peace offering...Maybe Kristoph would forgive him yet – and they could at least talk a little. He won't give up - talking wouldn't magically dissolve all their problems, but it's a start, at least.

His decision made, Apollo hastily threw the rest of his belongings carelessly into the open briefcase and ran off after Kristoph with the file.

* * *

Kristoph moved out of the courtroom and into the defendant's lobby, wrists chained together by metal cuffs that didn't quite fit and rubbed his wrists until the skin was red and sore. The bailiff ignored him, and he tried not to wince when the cuffs rubbed against his raw skin. Wincing was a show of weakness, and god knows he had enough of being pitied nowadays that additional sympathy was just plain distasteful. Kazaf noticed though, and flicked an arrogant hand at the bailiff to have it removed.

"But sir, that's against regulations," The bailiff protested. "He could very well escape the courthouse..."

"Where bailiffs and guards and armed forces wander every hallway? I think not. Release him – unless you have no confidence as to your colleagues' abilities."

The bailiff muttered darkly under his breath and took out the key to his cuffs. A moment later they clicked apart and Kristoph gritted his teeth. That was the final embarrassment he needed – to have his handcuffs removed because he was too pathetic even to stand them. Kazaf motioned, and the bailiff stepped away, still muttering and shooting disgruntled glances at him.

The boy motioned at the bench, inviting him to take a seat, but Kristoph remained standing.

"What are you scheming this time, Kazaf?"

"Hmm? What makes you think I'm scheming anything at all?" He raised a polite eyebrow at the man.

"The fact that you're breathing my air." Kristoph retorted sarcastically, and he chuckled. "Why the hospitality if you're not up to your eyes in some scheme then? I hardly think it befits a chief of police to have so little to do that he must follow a common criminal around."

"Perhaps...I wish to have a little chat with you? Between friends, real cozy like?"

"Oh? How nice – why don't we light a gentle fire and roast some marshmellows?" Kristoph suggested, trying not to flick his gaze at his wrists. They hurt like hell, but he'll be _damned_ if he rubbed them in front of the brat.

"I see we're a little hostile today, aren't we?"

Before he could stop himself, he let out a violent hiss. "You betrayed me, Kazaf."

A flicker of annoyance crossed the shorter man's face. "I'm sorry? Did I ever claim I was on your side?"

"Must be my imagination acting up then." Kristoph flexed a wrist, contemplating the consequences if he punched the boy. Surely they would add a couple of charges against him, and the guards would enjoy kicking him around a little – but it was almost worth it. Almost. "Why bother helping me – for free, even, then turn around and gang up with Phoenix on me?"

Another ripple across the calm surface.

"Or perhaps that was your plan all along? Or maybe it's your sick and twisted idea of fun? Is it fun? Tell me, because I don't think I'll ever reach that level where I think this sort of thing is fun."

No reaction, except an annoyed lip protruding in disgruntlement.

"Or maybe you don't consider it as backstabbing? Was that how your sister taught you to behave – stab someone behind their backs while singing another tune? My, she must be so --"

A hand reached up and slapped him across his face.

"Another word about my sister and I'll have you strapped to the electric chair and ground your bone to dust." He spat out. He pulled out a familiar kind of envelope – a brown one, the kind those used to store autopsy reports and certain court files and thrust it into Kristoph's hands. "That's why I'm on Phoenix Wright's side – maybe if you spend more time in the real world instead of having your head stuck in la-la land, you'll realize how much shit you're in."

Kristoph warily took the envelope and removed the contents and-- His fingers froze over it, hovering slightly in hesitation, like the moment of anticipation before a bomb blows. He definitely felt like it.

"W-What on Earth...?"  
"Hah!" Kazaf let out a sharp crack of laughter – containing no humour whatsover. "Surprised, eh?"

Kristoph run a finger over the letters in disbelief, some in bold, some in normal font – but all spelling the same things. Information on him – what he did, how he did it. His adoption of Apollo and – he let out a small gasp – Apollo's being entered into the hospital on suspicions of Atroquinine poisoning. He flipped to the next page, almost hungrily – devouring every word and photo clipped onto it, until he reached the end – a photo of a particular stain on a subway rail – the unmistakable stain of what was once a human, or something large and biological.

This time he really did gasp.

"You shouldn't have messed with shit that you can't swallow, Kristoph." Kazaf said quietly.

"T-This...You compiled this?"

"No." He looked up, hard gaze leveled right at Kristoph. "The FBI did."

"The FBI?" Kristoph stammered, flummoxed. "How did they-?"

He closed his eyes. "Do they- do they know?"

Kazaf's gaze turned cold. "You did it, didn't you?"

"Does it matter? I'm sure you've pieced it together yourself." Kristoph attempted a smile, but it came out shaky.

The boy swallowed, and for the first time since Kristoph knew him, looked tired – of him, and of everything in general. "As a matter of fact, I didn't – at least, I wasn't convinced. I heard glimpses of it from Edgeworth, then rumours of him covering something up for you. But...I thought you were a little above that. I thought you wouldn't be so...So _evil_ as to kill a man who helped you – just to cover up your tracks."

He closed his eyes.

"I dumped it aside. Thought it was just, you know, my overactive imagination – I feel like I'm a little too cynical these days anyway, so I thought you know, I'll be a little more trusting." He laughed mockingly at himself. "But don't you know it? I went out and helped Wright a little – get him that card to stir things up a little, you know. Then wham. Call comes in, file came in on my way there."

"So this file..."

"Is pieced together by the FBI – with clear instructions to the PD. They want you nailed. Like a butterfly to a board, Kristoph. Like a butterfly to a board."

"But how did they find out? That's to say-"

"Stupid. You really thought that man just waltz into a meeting with you – not telling anyone? He told the wife that he was going out to meet an attorney. You're an attorney. You called him days ago. The FBI's a lot of things – most notably irritating – but they're not stupid – unlike apparently, you are." He raked a hand through his hair, blatantly avoiding Kristoph's eye – not that the man in question particularly noticed. "God, for a smart man, you sure can be stupid sometimes."

Kristoph was speechless, stumbling over a mental block. For once in his life, he realized exactly how arrogant he was. Never once had he imagined – not even once – that he would be caught, and that the FBI would be on his trail. Sure, he had thought plenty of times about what life would be like behind cold steel bars, but it was merely a thought. It was never a possibility – never _real_. He was a cat with nine lives, and the police always had eight more to go before they could nab Kristoph Gavin.

But still –

"That doesn't explain why you're so keen in putting me in jail all of a sudden." He snapped.

Kazaf smiled sadly in explanation. "Sheesh, can't slip anything by you, can I?"

"Don't think I will forget so easily your little show with Wright in the court – humiliating at best, disgusting at worst."

"Closed." He explained quietly.

"Pardon?"

He brought up a thumb and a finger, and twiddled his hair around it absentmindedly, his right foot tapping all the while.

"The FBI has limited resources – they will go after you, even if you're in jail – but only up to a certain point. Once you're behind bars, give them a couple more months, and they'll leave off on the scent and investigate something else."

"_THAT'S _your great idea? Stick me in jail to get me off the hook with the FBI?"

"Do you want to swing?" He snapped. "Because that's where you're heading – or maybe they'll make you dance on the chair instead – at the rate they're going."

"They can't prove anything." Kristoph stated, but it lacked firmness.

"Oh, believe me, they can. Sooner or later they'll find enough detectives who will talk about the case to collaborate a believable case, then send it to a judge and have you, like I said – pinned. They'll get a doctor, they'll get some nurses – and they'll paint you out to be this crazy psychopath who poisons his own kid, and wouldn't hesitate to off someone else either."

"You're forgetting something, Devereux?"

"Hair gel?"

"No – I happen to be on trial here – for the murder of Shadi Smith that you've helped to facilitate. If it gets through – that's it, I would swing, either way."

"Eh..." Kazaf rubbed his chin ruefully. "We'll cross that hurdle when we come to it. Bottom line is – I'll get you a light sentence, something like second degree murder or involuntary slaughter – don't give me that look, we'll just tell them you know, you wanted to brain him with the bottle for fun, and your hand slipped and you know – the works. Lawyer tricks. Punishment will be long – take twenty years at least--"

Kristoph winced at the thought of twenty years in a dank cell. He had been hopping for a swift end if things come to the worst – better to go out with a bang than to spend a lifetime behind bars.

"--But we can appeal. Your squeaky clean record, your first offense, ever. Not even an overdue parking ticket. Your utmost, sincerest, apologies, and that you regret it, and we'll get it down to ten. Then you go in, and spend your days being model prisoner, and suddenly -you'll only get five for good behaviour."

Five years. It wasn't really such a bad deal. It wasn't as good as being free – nothing was of course – but if the alternative was to be nabbed by the higher ups...

"You're forgetting something." He reminded the boy, who had started counting down all the pros of his little foolproof plan with one hand, fingers outstretched.

"I'm not going to put in a plea for you – if that's what you want."

Kristoph shook his head. "No, it's not that. It's just...Have you ever thought of what's going to happen to me once I get out?"

The look on his face told him that it never once occurred to him about a life after getting out of prison.

"Bur." Was his intelligent answer.

"The thing is Kazaf, it's not a bad deal, I'll give you that much. But – and this is a big but – what do you want me to be when I leave jail?"

A confused face looked back at him.

"You don't understand, do you? This will strip me of my badge – not that anyone would hire a murderer as their defense in their first place. I'll be a criminal, my face plastered once over national television as the killer attorney – worse even than a pariah. Klavier will probably disown me. What do you want me to live off when I DO get out – gruel? I think jail would probably be better than the life waiting for me when I do get back on the streets."

"I well..." Kazaf bit his lip, looking ashamed of himself. "I never really thought that far - I hadn't had time to plan things in detail...I just thought well, it's the best way."

"I know – and I'm not faulting you. Just that well, as you can see, there will be complications."

"Well...You could come live with us! Sis will love to have you around – and maybe you can go back to work for her?"

Kristoph looked at him like he was insane.

"For the rest of my life?"

"Oh." The boy's face looked like a burst balloon. A moment of silence reigned in the defendant's lobby as each contemplated the looming question, while a few moths buzzed noisily around the light overhead. A long moment later, Kazaf brightened up again – eyes gleaming hopefully.

"I know! You can just go back to Tomato! I mean, I'm sure he'll let you live with him – I mean, it's so obvious that he adores you like a kid adores Spiderman."

Kristoph merely shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid that's impossible, Kazaf."

"Why not?" Puzzled eyes peered back at him. "I don't think he'll turn you out – if only through sheer guilt."

"Let's just say...We're not on best speaking terms right now."

"Oh."

"You guys fought?"

"Obviously."

"Oh." Kazaf rubbed his chin again. "But you guys are family, aren't you? Sis and I argue all the time, but we always make up after that."

"No, Kazaf. No. And even if he would allow me, I wouldn't live on him anyway." Kristoph muttered. The other looked patiently, waiting for his answer. None came, and he asked.

"Why not?"

And with those simple words, it was like a dam burst in Kristoph – everything he had been storing inside for the last couple of days poured out, engulfing him, then washing him off along with it – like he was a stick in the middle of a raging waterfall. Pride, and it's defeated self came back in a rush, not unlike alcohol down a frozen mouth, burning him from inside out.

"Why not?" He repeated, voice shrill. "_Why not_? I'll tell you why not!"

Kazaf took a step back, surprised at the force of his tone.

"Don't you think that's like giving in to fortune? Like surrendering to the fate I don't believe in? I never wanted that boy in the first place," He hissed – surprising even himself with the confession. "I only adopted him when I met him because of his bracelet – because he's a missing link in a case I handled. Why do you think I adopted him? Because I had sudden aspirations to fatherhood?"

Kazaf took another step back, and Kristoph took one forward, like a tiger stalking it's prey.

"I adopted him – so I can keep an eye on him. I adopted him – because it was convenient to do so. I adopted him – because it was a twist of fate, and I HAD to adopt him. Now you're telling me that I have to crawl back to him – a product of chance and dumb luck – a reject? That would be like the ultimate last laugh from destiny, isn't it? The thing I never wanted turns out to be the only thing that can keep me alive."

He exhaled an angry hiss. "I think not. Not in a million years. And besides," A sharp crack of mocking laughter – almost hysterical. "I highly doubt he'll be in any position to help me himself. People like him don't get very far up the hierarchy."

Kazaf looked sorry he ever suggested such a thing, and mumbled under his breath. "I'm sorry...I just well – I thought you guys always looked so sweet together – like a really happy family, so..."

"I know. It would have been too, but –" He closed his eyes. "--It's not to be, it seems."

"I guess, I'll have to figure out something—Ah!" A thump sounded, and Kazaf's eyes widened as it homed in on a spot behind Kristoph and Kristoph turned around.

"T-Tomato!" Kazaf exclaimed. "I-I mean – Apollo! Um- Hey there!"

And sure enough, there was Apollo, in the flesh, standing in the hallway with a file hanging loosely – barely threaded through by two numb fingers and another, lying on the ground after having fallen from his hands. His other was curled loosely – like the hands of a catatonic patient, not quite sure what to do with themselves. Kristoph stared at him, not sure if he was supposed to smile or laugh or started an undignified bawl.

_Please, God. Don't tell me this is your idea of a sick joke._

"A-Apollo," He said, as firmly as he could manage. "How long have you been standing there?"

Apollo looked like he was chiseled out of stone.

"Long enough."

"I...Ah."

A long silence stretched in the room, almost longer in it's presence than the shadows of the men within, and blacker and darker still. Kazaf shifted uncomfortably, as though he wasn't quite sure if he should stay or run screaming away from the room.

"W-Was there something you needed?" Kristoph hazarded at last.

Apollo held up the file. "I thought you would like to read this file – the summary of the trial."

He raised the file up, holding it between two hands that had suddenly gained heretofore unexploited strength.

"But I can see you have better things to do with your time."

He tore the thick file right into two, and then when it was done, he tore the pieces again with a vengeance and venom that he had never exhibited before – and then again and again and again. When he was done and the pieces had turned into many, he threw them up and it fluttered weakly down, like paper snowflakes with black ink traced across their surface.

A long moment. The pieces of the fragmented file drifted slowly and scattered around their feet – but no one had eyes on the pieces, only on each other. Only on each other – with no thoughts running through their heads. The room itself seemed to have stopped – time flow momentarily paused as though to mark exactly how momentous the occasion is. Then, like every other moment in life, it passed, and Apollo raised his head.

"I'm so sorry I'm a reject."

Kristoph closed his eyes.

"I'm so sorry you had to be stuck with me."

_I'm sorry too. That I wasn't stuck with you longer._

"Goodbye, Mr. Grant."

And with that simple name again, they were back to where they first met – two strangers – perhaps less even than then, now they felt nothing at all.

He turned around, and this time when someone was left behind – it was Kristoph Gavin, standing in the middle of the room, not quite sure what to do with himself and Kazaf, gently patting him on his back in a small measure of comfort.

* * *

"The appeal for the sentence of Kristoph Gavin will now resume." The judge called out. Once again, long line of people filed into the room, almost dutifully, and took their respective seats in the public galleries. Some even stood leaning against the balcony railing when the stands filled. If possible – the crowd looked even thicker now, and a little more solemn, as though their altercation outside had somehow left a scar on people who didn't know it. Or perhaps that was fanciful thinking on Kazaf's part, because he felt more solemn himself.

"Don't worry," He whispered. "Lana will make sure you get behind bars – she'll settle for nothing lesser."

Cold comfort in rare circumstances, downright ridiculous on most occasions. This time, it didn't even register. The husk nodded, and followed the bailiff into the court like a child being led into detention – or a madman to his ward. A disturbing thought, that.

Kazaf sighed and took his place behind the prosecution's bench. Dutifully – because everything felt like a duty now, a chore, an effort he didn't want to put and a drama he just wanted to press fast forward on and be done with it. Lana nodded solicitously at him and the judge slammed his gavel down to signify the end of tolerable nonsense.

"That's enough of the cacophony – everyone please be seated and be quiet, or you'll be removed from the court." The crowd nodded dutifully – there was that adjective again. Why did it keep popping out in his brain? - and the stately silence proper to such proceedings resumed. Kazaf looked towards the other side of the courtroom, where the defense bench was – but Kristoph's Tomato Lawyer was not looking over at him. He was looking at the judge, and only at the judge – with the sort of intensity he hadn't exhibited all day.

"If everyone is settled and comfortable, I would like to follow up from where we left off. Prosecutor Skye?"

"Yes, Your Honour?"

"Is the prosecution quite ready?"

"Yes, Your Honour."

"The defense then?" He glared at Tomato as though he expected him to burst out into song or some other preposterous activity, but Tomato only nodded.

"The defense is ready, Your Honour."

"Alright – now, as I explained before our recess," The judge frowned at a file he was holding. "This appeal will now come to an end. Kristoph Gavin has pleaded_ nolo contendre_ to the crime of voluntary manslaughter – and that is what the prosecution has decided to charge him with--"

Lana sniffed a little angrily. "I wouldn't say that's what 'we' decided to charge him with."

Kazaf glared her into silence. She might be his sister's close acquaintance – but she couldn't be more different from his sister – though maybe he just felt that way because his sister let him have his way with everything.

"It's nothing...Mr. Judge. Lana and I had a disagreement, that's all."

The judge blinked. "Very well – I won't waste anymore time. You all know the recent ruling on the judges – despite the fact that we're the ones who ultimately determine the sentence, we are required to listen to the suggested sentence from both parties as well as the reasons and circumstances to back it up."

Lana nodded. "The prosecution has already prepared our suggested sentence – we motion that the defendant, Kristoph Gavin, be sentenced to twenty years in prison without possibility of parole."

"That's right," Kazaf leaned forward. "We figured Mr. Gavin right there after all, is only committing his first offense. He's never displayed so much as a violent temperament before, not even a late parking ticket – so we decided to motion an ah...Lighter than usual sentence."

"But this is a murder case, Kazaf! First offense or no, it's a very serious crime.' The judge protested. Kazaf shrugged his small shoulders.

"We all make mistakes, Your Honour – some more than the rest." He aimed a meaningful glance at Kristoph when he said this, and the man made a small, imperceptible wince.

"Hmm." The judge frowned, troubled by the short sentence, even as a murmur of disapproval raged through the crowd like a particularly violent wave. Disgruntled faces glared from all directions at Kazaf, with the obvious question spelled on their faces : What is he thinking?

_"...To motion for such a short sentence..."_

_"The rumours must be true after all...."_

_"--He's just helping him out because they're friends!"_

"That's enough, order!" The gavel came down again and two bailiffs stepped forward, escorting a few excited reporters that had gotten loud out of the room. "Lana, your thoughts on the matter?"

"I don't quite approve either, Your Honour, but Devereux's words have a ring of truth to them – it is his first offense after all, and we must consider his impeccable record."

"Yes...." The judge trailed off, leaning a little on his gavel. "It must be given some thought. What about you, Mr. Justice? The court has yet to hear your opinion – what sentence do you think would be appropriate for your client?"

A few of the public chose this moment to interrupt – shouting at the top of their lungs that the court was a mockery. Bailiffs moved in immediately like bees to do their queen's bidding and they were removed, their legs scraping a little on the wooden floor as they were pulled out.

When it was quiet again, the voice broke that silence, speaking in a soft, undertone that betrayed steely determination.

"The death penalty, Your Honour."

The judge – and indeed, almost all of the courtroom let out a soft gasp as they saw who was saying those blasphemous words – Apollo Justice. He cocked his head upwards and glared at judge - not for a moment, sorry.

"The death penalty is what the defense motions as the sentence for my client, Kristoph Gavin...Your Honour."

A wave rippled again through the crowd – and this time the volume became uncontrollable – not that there was anyone to control them any longer. The guards and bailiffs and turned against themselves to discuss the defense's statement – and all the crowd with them. Heads swiveled back and forth as they search for people of their like mind to discuss it – though they needn't look far. Everyone there was of the same opinion, hands of the court, and visitors alike – the boy was mad.

Kazaf wagged a mocking finger at Apollo, and the crowd roared it's approval. "You must have gone mad, Tomato."

"My name is Apollo Justice." He corrected him stonily.

"Are you aware that you're the defense, not the prosecution? And that you have just about suggest the most dire sentence for the defendant? Even the prosecution would hesitate before pinning that little sentence on someone, you know. I know you're new to the showbiz, or lawbiz, in this case, Tomato – but surely you can understand that much?"

"My name is Apollo Justice." He repeated, not budging.

_Drat the man_, Kazaf cursed. If he didn't watch out he was going to put a cog in his perfect plans – not to mention that in the first place, both Lana and the judge was already slightly sceptical to boot.

"Fine, Apollo then." Kazaf huffed. "What game are you playing at?"

"I'm not playing anything. I wasn't aware that I had to explain myself to you." Apollo turned to face the judge instead, effectively ignoring Kazaf, who dug his nails into the wooden desk. No one bloody ignored him like that. "Now then, Your Honour. The defense will explain why it has seen fit to suggest such a sentence."

The judge nodded for him to proceed, still looking incredulous.

"The reason is simple – consider our defendant. He is a lawyer – a defense attorney himself, to be precise. He is well aware of the law, and he is well aware of what is wrong, and what is right. Even beyond that – he is well aware as a _human_ ( he stressed human like it was the last thing on Earth he thought Kristoph was.) of how wrong the act of murder is, and yet, does he stop and pause for breath, to stay his own hand?"

He paused to let the effect sink in.

"Indeed, he does not. Instead, what we see, Your Honour – is an unrepentant man. He has never once voiced his regret over the matter, or even a shred of remorse over what he has done. This is not a person that will fulfill any role in society, except to rot it – like a disease in an orchard. Which is why..." Apollo smiled, calmly, coldly. "The defense suggests that Your Honour simply reach down your benevolent hand...And_ pluck_ the rotten core right out of the apple."

"The defense would suggest no such thing, Your Honour!" A sudden shout interrupted from the defendant's seat. Kristoph's face was distorted with fury at his apprentice – who merely leveled a cold eye on him.

"I wasn't aware that you're the defense, Mr. Gavin. Perhaps you should return to your spelling – you're a defendant – quite a few alphabets away from the defense, and far in status by light years."

"You-"

"-Have all the right in the world to suggest such a thing. No law has been created that states the defense cannot suggest what they think is appropriate."

Kristoph hissed a little, like an angry cat that had it's tail stepped on.

"When did you become so evil, Apollo?"

Apollo merely smiled at him. "If I'm evil, Kristoph – then you must be too. What I am, is what you made me out to be. If I am evil, then you must have taught me to be so."

"I don't think I've ever had the charming opportunity to teach you such impunity."

"No? I must have learned it from watching you then."

The court stared in mesmerized silence while the two – supposedly on the same sides – glared each other down from defendant's seat to the defense's bench. The air faintly crackled with animosity – and for once, even Kazaf was at a momentarily loss of words, though not for the same reason as the rest of the flummoxed court. No, he was reeling inside as he watched what he had assumed to be a Gumshoe-proof plan - one even said detective couldn't fail - slowly showed cracks amidst itself. The problem was standing opposite him – brown hair spiked into horns that for once, Kazaf thought rather suit him. He was like a demon when he was enraged.

Kristoph had taught the boy well – perhaps too well. He had been so easily flustered and blushed so frequently when Kazaf had saw him that once, he had just taken him for face value – a backbone-less child with no talent that Kristoph had taken in. What he never expected was this side of him – a replica of Kristoph's calculated side hidden underneath the surface – that rose when he was provoked like oil on water. He had underestimated Apollo – thought he was just some sort of pathetic attorney destined for the highway to no where, and it looked as though he was going to have to pay the price.

Not if he could help it though, he liked free things.

Kazaf leaned forward, lounging casually on the prosecution's bench and interrupted the two glaring men. "I'm afraid that is not for you to state, Tomato."

"Apollo Justice." He snapped back without looking at him. His eyes were still focused on the man behind the defendant's seat, and vice versa.

"Fine. Apollo. Whatever. It's still not your decision to make – it's the judge's and I'm sure the judge would never agree with something so thoroughly ridiculous now, would he?" He peered up hopefully at the judge – but the judge gave no sign that he heard him, only leaning more heavily on the gavel. Lines, worn lines, appeared on him. Lines that Kazaf never once noticed before. He had forgotten that the judge too, has seen a lot in his lifetime.

"Yes...But I must say, as much as it pains me to agree – he makes a valid point. A murder is a murder is a murder – and there seems to be no grounds on which the court can pardon Mr. Gavin."

"Ah, it seems the judge has not lost any of his insubstantial weak-mindedness," Kristoph commented. The judge glared at him.

"Might I remind Mr. Gavin that he is to be on best behaviour in court?"

"Why?" He shot back, looking genuinely puzzled. "It seems the court have already decided on my punishment anyway."

"No we haven't, not really--"

"Oh? I can see that no matter what reason the prosecution can come up with to shorten my sentence, the defense will find some bone to pick with it. I suggest we fast forward right to the part where you sentence me to swing...Your_ Honour._" Kristoph resumed his defensive stance, looking bored. "Go on, get on with it."

The judge closed his eyes and frowned, troubled. "I'm afraid that that is the standard due for murder, Mr. Gavin-"

"Objection!" Kazaf shouted. "May I remind Your Honour that he's not being charged for murder? He's being charged with voluntary manslaughter!"

Apollo looked at the assembled public with an exaggerated incredulous expression and a sarcastic smile. "Is there anyone in court," he asked. "That actually believes that Mr. Gavin there killed someone by a 'sleight of hand'? Pardon me, but I only find it slightly unbelievable that his hand 'slipped' while holding the bottle over his head."

The crowd laughed with Apollo, and Kazaf grimaced. Thank God for no jurist systems, or their proverbial goose was, so to speak, boiled, cooked and seasoned – ready to serve. He glanced up, and thanked God a second time that at least the judge hadn't laughed at that attempt to win over the hearts of the courtroom.

There was a long moment as everyone waited for the judge to pronounce his sentence, and finally he sighed – like a person stirring awake to a nightmare. "Sometimes I feel I should retire."

_Oh no, please don't. Who am I going to pressure into doing my work for me?_

"You don't look a day over sixty, Your Honour." He slid in smoothly.

"No, but I feel ninety." His eyes cleared, and he gazed solemnly down at Kristoph Gavin – who flicked his hair arrogantly at the judge in an uncaring motion.

"Just do it," He snapped. "Stop wasting time over sentimentality."

"Very well. It appears that I must now make a decision." He slammed the gavel down. "I'm afraid I hereby sentence Kristoph Gavin to the death pen--"

Kristoph's eyes closed, sucking in a deep breath as he awaited the words--

"Hold it!"

The judge's head snapped towards Kazaf, who by now had turned an angry shade of purple, head bobbing a little furiously at the thought of losing to some crackhead novice. "What is it now, Kazaf?"

He ignored the judge, glaring instead at Apollo Justice, whose look of boredom – if examined closely by anyone, would make them realize exactly how much it looked like that of the man behind the defendant's seat.

"So you like to play hardball, don't you, Tomato?"

"I don't play hard anything, midget. All I'm saying is what I think, how I think it, why I think it. If it's too much to get into your skull, by all means empty it of some nefarious and underhanded thought. Perhaps things will seem a little clearer to you then." He crossed his arms.

Kazaf snapped. His temperament, right into two. God, he was annoying – the both of them. That tone of condescending, patronizing...

"Fine." He addressed the judge instead. "Your Honour – you have once told me that you never give sentences with doubts in your mind."

The judge nodded. "Yes, that's true. But I see no reason to doubt--"

He held up a hand and cut the judge's speech off. "Very well then. Allow me to testify then, Your Honour, and we will see if by the end of it – you will still be as cleared of doubt as you are now."

Apollo's eyes narrowed, and the file he griped in his hands shuddered a little as his fingers tightened around it. "This is not a trial, midget. You can't testify in an appeal."

"Not even if it might very well overturn the case?"

"Not even then – this isn't a trial!" He yelled, anger starting it's ascend in him. "You can't testify in an appeal about the case itself."

"No, but I can do so if it is deemed to affect the sentence outcome -" He directed the full force of his glance at the judge. "Well, can I, Your Honour?"

"Kazaf...I really don't know about this. I think I liked you better when you were acting childish."

"Oh, and so would a lot of criminals, believe me. Now, can I?"

"Very well," He sighed at last. "Bailiff, lead him over to the witness's stand."

A bailiff walked forward to continue a farce of guiding him over to the witness's stand. Someone in the crowd jeered, but he didn't care, merely taking his place behind the stand. If you're going to help a friend, might as well do it all the way – especially since he was part of the reason Kristoph was in this mess in the first place. The moment he was placed into the stand, the jeers begin – loud shouts from the crowd that even the judge couldn't control – that even made Apollo uncomfortable.

_Good, _he thought, incensed._ I hope he gets a good look at what he's about to do to his own father._

His eyes met with Kristoph's and for a moment, thoughts spoke louder than words.

_What are you doing this time, Kazaf?_

_Don't worry about it – I'll clean up my own mess._

He took up the bible, and swore, as sonorously as his high pitched voice could appear, that he wouldn't lie to the court. When he was done and the judge was satisfied, he lowered the book, almost throwing it carelessly onto the stand.

"Now...Let's continue with your testimony then. What have you seen that can make us doubt Kristoph's guilt?"

Kazaf leaned forward and smiled. _Jackpot._

* * *

"...The police forces were there within three minutes. Now, the passageway leading from the basement of the club and the outside is not only long, it is built in a winded structure and it's old, extremely so. No one in his right mind would run in that kind of enclosed space and live to tell the story, because it will collapse on you - and it is impossible that Kristoph Gavin has escaped before the police arrived."

Kristoph stared at the boy, who calmly recited the version of events. He couldn't fathom why Kazaf would want to testify about seeing him coming out of the basement – because that was the last nail and hammer for his coffin, not that he needed another one. Maybe that his plan, he thought. At this point, he didn't really know who to trust anymore. Apollo, the person he would have vouched the most for a month ago was requesting that he be hanged. Kazaf Devereux is doing him a favour – for free.

Next thing you know, someone will tell him that his nails are actually green, and he's been seeing them wrongly all his life.

"...I was standing at the slope directly above the door to the basement. If anyone at all had left through that door – the person can be seen doing so from the slope." Kristoph looked up. Here it comes.

"...But I saw nothing."

Kristoph's head snapped so hard that it was a wonder his neck didn't break right there.

"Nothing!?" The judge exclaimed.

"Nothing. Nada. Zippo. No one left, and no one entered – least of all Kristoph Gavin."

_What the bloody fuck was the boy playing at this time?_

"I – but that's-- Objection!" Apollo fairly screamed. "That was perjury of the highest order, Your Honour!"

"Proof, honey lumps – proof! You say I'm lying? Where's your proof that I am doing so?" Kazaf retorted.

"Logic! Come on, the murder method has already been established! There was no way you can't have seen him – and even if you didn't, what makes you so sure that he couldn't have left after you left the scene of the crime? Or are you going to claim now that you stood there all night long?"

"Devereux..." Lana shook her head at the boy. "I'm afraid I cannot tolerate testimony like that."

"I'll tell you why it's impossible for the criminal to stay in the passage for longer than that – have you ever considered why Phoenix Wright is so wrapped up?"

"That has nothing --"

"And do you know how cold the temperature is in the borscht bowl club?"

The judge's eyes widened. "No, how much?"

"Well...Let's just say if you place a hand on one of the furniture right now, you'll get it handed back to you by a doctor, amputated nicely." Kazaf explained, waving his hand this way and that to get the point across. "There's no way a person can stay in the passageway – seasoned nicely by years of cold air in it – for longer than say, one hour. Assuming it takes half and hour of crouching to do the job and another additional fifteen minutes to get out – he would have needed to get out immediately when he got to the door or risk freezing himself to kingdom come."

"At that time, I was on the slope – and I saw no one. No one came out."

"B-But..." The judge trailed off. "But this is a grievous contradiction to the case, Kazaf! Why didn't you testify sooner? Why, you could have gotten Mr. Gavin right off the hook!"

Exactly what he didn't want, it would seem. He shrugged carelessly to illustrate the point. "Why? I was on the prosecution's side. Why would I possibly testify against my own case?"

"But that's withholding information!" The judge exclaimed, waving his gavel threateningly.

"That's not what we should concentrate on right now, Your Honour!" Apollo cut in. "What we should ask ourselves is this : Why does he suddenly come out to say it? Could it be..." He shoved the finger rudely in Kazaf's direction. "He's lying!?"

"Keep waving that finger of yours at me and I'll bite it off," Kazaf snarled. "That's the truth – that's what I saw!"

"You should have told the court earlier, Kazaf! It could have well been a vital piece of information!" The judge shouted, losing his cool. Lana joined in with a furious expression to rival the judge's.  
"You know how grievous it is to conceal information from the court--"

"Um, hello?" Kazaf looked irritated at the barrage at him, and glared at the roaring crowd. "I wasn't a witness. I withheld nothing – I can't tell you something I'm not asked for, can I? It's the prosecution's fault for not calling me out to testify."

"Oh NOW it's_ MY _men that's at fault now, is it?" Lana hissed at him. "You bastard, Devereux."

"Wow. Harsh. I never did anything wrong-"

"Yes you did it! You deliberately concealed a vital piece of--"

"Don't you think that's against the law? Devereux, you should know better!"

"Kazaf my boy, you have to explain yourself!"

"I don't have to explain anything--"

Kristoph took a step back and pressed a finger to his pounding forehead. Cacophony burst at him from all sides, and the lights glared even brighter than normal, and they were making him bloody dizzy...

* * *

When he recovered and could open his eyes again - the headache having subsided a little - the courtroom had become calm – deadly calm. Kazaf's eyes were red – signs that he had been shouted at a lot. The boy had always been a little of a crybaby when it came to getting shouted at, and Lana's face was now entirely indistinguishable with Fury itself. Apollo's fists were clenched so hard that his twin antennas shook with impunity.

"So..." The judge said at last. "Where does this bring us to...?

"I still stand by my suggestion of a death penalty to the defendant, Your Honour," Apollo stated firmly. Lana shook her head, rejecting the idea – not because she disagreed, but in a matter of principle. If the defense said A, the prosecution must say B, even when the answer was A, obvious to anyone with half a mind to share between ten of them – could see.

"I'm afraid the prosecution still thinks a lighter punishment is appropriate for the defendant, Your Honour." She glared at the boy. "Perhaps we can reserve the death sentence for someone else?"

Kazaf looked away.

The judge nodded, and stood to give his final, closing speech for the appeal, and everyone, even the bailiffs – waited in bated breath as the fate of Kristoph Gavin stood ready to be read out.

"A new piece of evidence has come to light in this appeal."

He did not glare at Kazaf, or looked balefully at anyone in general, merely reciting it, like a careworn poem.

"Had this been submitted in the trial – perhaps we find ourselves without the necessity to attend this sad day. But things come as they may, and I actually do not have any doubts as to the guilt of the defendant concerning the crime itself. But the doubt is there – even if takes another form – how had he gotten out, if he had truly murdered Shadi Smith through the pathway? And is Kazaf telling the truth?'

"We have no way to determine, and the trial – at the end of it's allocated three days, must now come to an end with this appeal." He raised his gavel, and in one smooth move, slammed it against the wooden surface for the final time that day.

"I hereby sentence the defendant, Kristoph Gavin to ten years in prison without the possibility of parole!"

A collective gasp gathered from the crowd – some approvingly, some disapprovingly. Conversation ensued, even as most got up to leave the courtroom – having already heard the verdict. Boisterous discussion and heated debate followed them out. Lana tossed everything into a briefcase and stomped off – and the judge left shortly later, troubled beard with him. Kazaf on the other hand rushed over to the defendant's seat and threw himself onto the man before he could get up to leave with the bailiff.

"I'm so sorry!" He bawled out, eyes rapidly watering.

Kristoph stared down at the mass of nerves once called Kazaf. Even the bailiffs were incredulous that the unshakeable chief of police would be crying his eyes out in the middle of the courtroom. A couple of the public stared and goggled.

"Why are you crying, Kazaf? You've practically just saved my life."

He wiped away at a tear furiously. "Y-Yes- But I'm the reason you have to go to jail now--"

"Kazaf," He chided with an amused smile. "Wasn't that your plan in the first place?'

If anything, the sniffing got louder. "I know but I still-"

Kristoph bent down on one knee and smiled at the boy. He was still a child after all, no matter how hard he tried to fit into the glamorous world of criminal justice. Seven years ago, if Kazaf had come across him crying – he would probably have been disgusted and left without a word. But that was then and this was now. He reached up a tender hand and ruffled the boy's hair.

"Come now, Kazaf Devereux – surely you're not going to go all girly on me? Your men are watching." He tipped his chin up, telling him to stop crying. "You've done nothing wrong, and there's no reason you have to cry at all. Just think about what situation I would be in in a matter of months if you hadn't intervened."

The boy wiped off another tear and tried a courageous sniff and another furious swipe at his face. Kristoph chuckled. "Come on now Kazaf, you're starting to look downright like a girl."

Another sniff, and Kazaf managed a smile. "Your consolation skill sucks, Kristoph Gavin."

"Yes indeed. Chin up, brat – you did your best."

"My best," He intoned, thinking about a little. "You're right, I did my best."

"M-hmm." Kristoph chuckled at the self-righteous look on his face.

"Better than you, I might add." Kazaf added with a smug grin and a little sniff, waving off the bailiff assigned to Kristoph. "You just stood there like a rock and let things get slung at you."

"Never let it be said that I don't make a good target board then," He joked. Kazaf took another wipe off his eyes and smiled.

"But you better learn how to dodge the next time – seriously, you were like..." He trailed off suddenly as another figure approached them – clad in a red vest and rolled up sleeves. It was Apollo, hands wrapped around a thick bundle of files. He walked towards them – long confident strides that never once broke in it's march – and then before they knew it, he passed them by, without any more reaction than he would have given a stranger.

Kristoph thought he swallowed, but that was just fanciful thinking. He passed them by and headed towards the door, then without a backward glance – opened it and slammed it shut so forcefully that the whole structure shook, door swinging a little from the momentum. The last of the crowd filed out, and now the room was just another empty, silent room in the courthouse.

"Are you going to go after him?" Kazaf asked quietly His voice echoed, now that there was no longer anyone in the room – and for a moment Kristoph thought it sounded almost otherworldly – like divine intrusion to the earthly sphere to nag him into following after Apollo. "I can cover for you for a little while if you want to."

Kristoph shook his head. "I don't think so."

"No plans to reconcile anytime soon?"

For a moment Kristoph smiled off wistfully into the distance, as though he saw something that no one else saw. "I think...We should just leave it off here, Kazaf. There's no point in salvaging a relationship when there's nothing to be salvaged."

Kazaf clasped his hands behind his back, standing a little on tiptoes and wobbling back and forth in contemplation of this jewel of truth. "I don't think so – I think you guys just kiss and make up."

"Perhaps someday, Kazaf, perhaps someday." He reached down a hand and ruffle his hair again, then looping an arm around him, he asked. "Ready to go?"

"Okay, Kristoph – it's time to move you into your new home."

'I look forward to it." He chuckled, and together, arm in arm, they left the courtroom. A moment later, the lights in the room shut off – and the trial was over.

* * *

Note : Alright – to temporarily throw off the scents of 'EUU OOC-ER :(' and confusion as to why Apollo suddenly turns 180 and goes all berserk on people, I will attempt to explain how I define the difference between my Apollo and Capcom's, for the purpose of this discussion called Polly to avoid confusion.

Capcom's Polly is a guy of unknown background, but presumably lived his life with a foster family/orphanage because he had lost contact with his mother. He may not have had the best of upbringings, but for the most part, he had been allowed to grow on his own – developing a personality and will of his own.

My Apollo however, had been taken in by Kristoph and had lived with him for six long years. Six years is not a short amount of time, and Apollo hero-worships the man he considers as the reason his life changed – the family he's wanted for a long time. Along the way, he learns things the hard way – disillusionment about the exact credibility of Kristoph, being poisoned by his own 'father'. Even if he's recovered from it, the scars are hard to remove from his personality – not to mention that he has prolonged exposure to Kristoph's cool, calculating personality. They're covered up by his own personality – but they're still _there_ – like a malignant tumour that won't go away. Imagine then, if you lived with a cynical person since you were a kid who goes 'oh, that's not real I bet they just use stunts. That's not real either – must be sleight of hand.' Gradually, unconsciously, you will have taken in some of that cynicism and make it yours.

At his core, the Apollo of man of mist is the same as the real storyline's. He's still easily flustered and nervous a lot – a little cynical and a little sarcastic, and given to internal monologues. The only difference is that my Apollo is a little quicker to doubt, a little wiser to the ways of the evil. A little more 'exclusive' and wary of other people. But as he had told Kristoph – that was what he made him into.

Food for thought.

Oh, and sorry for the long chapter. I swear it's the last long one.


	19. XV : Solitary Confinement Number 13

_"My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me._

_"Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. _

_"What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?_

_"I never know what you are thinking. Think." _

_***_

_XV : Solitary Confinement, Number 13_

_Sometimes I think Mr. Gavin is really strange – he's always so nice to people, but it's nice in this really strange way, you know what I mean? It's not like pedophile-creepy or something, but there's just something in that smile of his, like it hints at something more than just a smile. Like a smile that is not quite a smile, but is a smile nonetheless, just not in a smiley way._

_Does that make sense? I guess it doesn't, but that's the vibe I always get from him when he smiles, and sometimes, when I think about how strange our situation is – I mean, he's only 11 years my elder after all – I get this really strange fear – like, I'm worried that I'll never really understand him at all. Like I can try, but I'll never be able to scratch more than the surface of the being that is Kristoph Gavin._

_I don't know why people seem to have this impression that he's this really nice, really benevolent person – not that he's not nice, I'm really grateful to him for what's he's doing for me. It's just that, they don't seem to notice that undercurrent in him, and they either trust him completely or try to step over him._

_I don't know much these days, but I know this much._

_That's a mistake._

***

Kristoph was led back to the detention center the same way he left – in cuffs. The vehicle to transport him was being prepared, and in the mean time – to be precise, a day or two – he would have to remain in the detention center while the necessary paperwork was being filed and the precise prison they were taking him to was determined. Several extra guards would be needlessly stationed outside the cell holding him, he had been told – and he would have to share the cell for the night with your average thugs – petty thieves and robbers that had been turned in for the night while they awaited their minor trial the next morning or be bailed out by sympathetic relatives.

"Don't kill anyone now," The guard joked as he locked the door behind Kristoph, sending him a laughing patronizing glance that spoke volumes. He had no idea of the circumstances of the trial – only that Kristoph was a Priority A criminal that had to be kept safe and in one piece, and that he was a murderer. He was doubtful of whether he deserved the sentence though – Kristoph, still clad in his favourite blue suit did not look like he could murder anyone, except perhaps with the power of a sharp tongue.

He chuckled to himself at the little joke and left Kristoph – the same man he had escorted into the detention center just days ago to meet one Phoenix Wright, though he didn't remember it – leaving Kristoph to fend for himself in the little cell.

The cell was ten feet by ten feet, Kristoph noted the moment he entered the cell. That meant it was about a hundred square feet – a comfortable sort of compartment – were it not for the fact that he had to share it with eight other inmates, a number far larger than the cell had been built in mind for. Next step then – he had learned a lot in his days of dealing with streetwise criminals. He measured the people in the room. Four clearly were first timers or people who ended up there accidentally. One was an old man, his beard as white as the judge's. Three young men that were still in preppy uniforms – from the same school he had enrolled Apollo into – and had probably been arrested for minor misdemeanours. They huddled in a corner with the old man, clearly uncomfortable with the rest of the inmates, which would be...

"Hey, nice suit." A man stepped forward. Black, unwashed hair that covered just about every other noticeable features. Another, scrawnier man was leaning against the rails.

"Must have cost a bomb, eh?' He commented. "Fine Armani. I'll give it eh...Three thousand. Give or take." The other two sitting on the only bunk bed in the cell whistled – dressed identically like bikers.

"That's some suit," Unwashed Hair commented. He leered forward a little and Kristoph fought the urge to leaned backwards. He wasn't supposed to show any signs of weakness but oh god...He smelled!

He nodded weakly, and this time, took a discreet step towards the side, an inch further away from the man.

"So what are you in for? Shoplifting?"

"I heard the rich folks have a liking for shoplifting – no balls to do anything else, ya know." A cracked smile from the biker twins.

At least I'm more experienced in these things than you, Kristoph lashed out mentally. No one asks anyone else about the crime they get sent in for – and they call themselves thugs?

"Murder actually," He said pleasantly. Perhaps he would have a little fun with them...It would take his mind off things, so to speak.

Howls of laughter all around the cell and Kristoph was a little miffed. People underestimate people a little too much.

"Oh? And who did you kill? Your own kid? 'Cuz I don't think anyone else's dumb enough to get himself nailed by you."

Kristoph tilted his head sideways. "Oh, yes, I tried to kill my own kid too."

Oh the irony! He would have laughed out loud if it wasn't so incredulous a situation. Another bout of laughter shared amongst them.

"So," The dirty one stepped up to him. "If I took your suit – and that Rolex you got there, you gonna kill me?"

Kristoph smiled pleasantly. Hook, line, and sinker – now he would have some fun. He needed to work out the kinks in his muscles from standing stiffly the entire trial – and though he didn't usually kept his punchbags that dirty, it would have to suffice for now. He's a jailed man now after all.

"I can try." He said. The man chuckled.

"Okay, I'll like to see you try."

He took a step forward and Kristoph flexed a knuckled, his eyes zoning in on one particularly loose metal bar on the window railing. One good yank and it would come out entirely from it's mortar prison...

* * *

"Kazaf, the phone!"

Kazaf's head snapped up from his Nintendo DS, and he yelled back irritably. "Get it for me! I'm kicking someone's ass in the battle tower – can't stop!"

"I swear to God..." His sister muttered under her breath and leaning over, hooked the receiver of the desk phone, only inches away from Kazaf's hands. She hung loosely, face forward off the back of the sofa and pulled it up to her ear – the coil emitting a gentle_ sproing_ of protest.

"Hello, the Devereux's speaking."

"Stop calling us the Devereux's – you know no one ever calls for you," Kazaf interjected.

Elizabeth showed her brother a finger. "Mhmm. Yes, what is it?"

"He's busy right now – I can pass your message to him." She listened closely, then shot a sarcastic glance at Kazaf before resuming her conversation. "Yeah, he's real busy – work, you know. So what can I do for you?"

"Mhmm."

"Huh?" Her expression darkened. "What do you mean he's involved in an assault?" She pressed a pen to her lips and frowned. "Oh alright, I'll get him to go over immediately." Whoever it was hung up, and Elizabeth replaced the receiver in it's proper port.

"Who's it?" Kazaf looked up, curious. "If it's that Engarde again, please tell them I'm putting him on parole and that's final – that guy's a leech on resources, and he just won't get _out_."

"No it's not him," She mumbled under her breath, looking troubled. "I can't believe...Barely a moment in..."

"Well, what's it? The chief of police requests your testimony, mademoiselle."

She cracked a smile at that, pinching him playfully on the cheek. "It's Kristoph – come on, he's gotten into trouble again in jail."

Kazaf off his DS swiftly, and his opponent - one Miles Edgeworth, was pissed. He was absolutely convinced his Alakazam was just going to put Kazaf's Misdreaveus to kingdom come.

* * *

When Kazaf walked down the hallway of the prison, his trainers were reflected on the prison hallway, newly replaced with a metallic surface to make it look cleaner and more high-tech, and he yawned – made drowsy by the cold atmosphere in the prison.

"I don't get this guy – I think he has a screwed up idea of what 'Model Prisoner' actually means." He told his sister, who was trailing after him dutifully, like a secretary. "He's been here for the whole of two hours and he goes and gets himself beaten up."

"Well, maybe he wasn't the one at fault. You know how some of these people can be." She protested, looking up at the guard in front of them. "How badly has he been beaten up, exactly?"

"I wouldn't call him 'beaten up', miss," He replied, shifting a little uncomfortably. "You see he--"

"Whatever." Kazaf rushed forward, fairly headbutting him off the way and snatching his ring of keys on his way. Elizabeth followed with a mouthed sorry at the guard and went after the disappearing boy, running down the hallway like a little cartoon character. She barely caught up with him a minute later, face a little red from the exertion.

"Kazaf – it's rude to push."

"No it's not – it's nice to push people. Haven't you ever heard that old song that goes ' I wanna push you around, yeah I will, yeah I will'?" He looked up at the number plates on the cell doors. "Just goes to show how fun pushing is if people actually make songs about it."

"Kazaf," She groaned, exasperated. "I don't think the singer was encouraging people to push people around."

"Yes he was," He insisted. Then, "Ah! Here we a—What the hell?"

* * *

_You won't believe how violent he gets sometimes when someone's in his way during a sale – I swear to God, if it was me he had scratched like that when he bagged that bottle earlier, I'm pressing charges._

_Oh, and he used the funnies to wrap up the thrash today. _

_Also, for maths exam later this month, chapter 5 is rumoured to be the questioned topic. Must remember to study._

***

The fist came sooner than he had expected, and faster than he had thought possible for such a large man – and it collided with the side of his head before he managed to react. Something rushed into his mouth – warm and lusty, the smell of fresh blood, and he licked it up, darting his lip to the side of his mouth. Kristoph stumbled backwards a little, and Dirty Person stalked him, like a predator – perhaps he fancied himself one?

The next blow came the moment Kristoph managed to breathe properly again – this time he managed to sidestep it a little, and the fist whizzed by, narrowly missing his cheek – it was so close that he just about felt the velocity of the wind. Another one, another sidestep. He was getting closer to the bar he had saw earlier now. The preppies and the old man disbanded quickly, huddling together in another corner of the cell as their eyes followed every movement like an entranced audience, moving in and out as they tried their best to keep the furthest distance possible away from Kristoph and that man.

"Wouldn't want to hurt your suit now," The man sneered. Kristoph merely took another step backwards – grateful at least that he had somewhat rudimentary skills when it comes to brawling. It makes it easier to provoke people, at the very least – the ability to defend himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the prep with his back against the rail shuddered – and his hair bobbed a little, suddenly reminding him of –

Another strong fist collided with his face, and this time it hit the side of his face, barely missing his glasses. He let out a hiss. If his glasses had been smashed, he would be walking around the cell blind this time tomorrow – but Godammit, it _hurt_. It might not have took his face off – but the part that HAD been hit felt like it had been singed by a red-hot poker, and he folded himself against the wall. One of his hands came up to massage the damaged skin. The other reached up and wrapped itself around one of the window's iron bar, as though he couldn't quite stand on his own.

If the man noticed where his other hand was, he made no comment.

"I thought you said you're in for murder? That ain't looking very murderous now." The scrawny man laughed, back leaning against the bedpost as he watched the altercation in amusement. The other two bikers laughed along with him – like dogs at their master's bidding.

"Hah! Murder – you can't kill my aunt Fanny. Maybe this will teach you what happens when you make up stories in here." The ugly bruiser stepped forward and drew back a fist to hit Kristoph – who started counting mentally the moment of impact.

3...2...1...

_Now!_

When the man swung his arm forward, Kristoph threw himself sideways, hand never letting go of the rail on the window. The momentum threw him sideways – and the metal bar came loose from the cement with a sharp crack along with him. He stumbled a little – nearly fell – but soon enough, he was on his feet again, and this time, he had the metal bar in his hands.

"This," He smiled at the man. "Is how I murdered someone – not with my fists." He tapped a finger on the side of his head. "With my brain."

Ugly Man took a step backwards, and the scrawny one swallowed nervously, pushing two hands out to try and calm Kristoph down.

"Now, now – you don't want no trouble. The guards will have you gutted in a second."

Kristoph appeared bemused of the suggestions, then he nodded – slight smile playing on his lips. He lowered the bar and thrust out a hand in a gesture of peace. Ugly Man looked confused and hesitant, but in the end he decided on the lesser of two evils – if shaking the crazy man's hand would save him from being bashed by the guy...He took a hesitant, half-minded step towards the blonde man in the blue suit and held out his hand to shake his.

Kristoph smiled at him – that convincing, calm smile that makes you think you're looking at an advent of God – an angel from the above, and the man managed an unconvincing grin at him, thinking that this must be one of those fancy loonies they're talking about these days.

And that was when he swung.

* * *

Kazaf brandished his DS once more while the man was being carted out of the cell, along with the scrawny man and the two bikers – all three sporting grievous new bruises that Kristoph had inflicted when they tried to stop him from killing the man. They had rushed forward to save him when Kristoph jammed the metal bar up his throat, thinking he was about to repeat his crime - and they had been awarded accordingly. All three now looked like they had just come out the worse from a particularly violent fight.

"That's one ugly bastard," Kazaf sniffed as the tall ugly one with the dirty, unkempt hair was carted out in a prison standard stretched by two guards. Elizabeth pinched him.

"Stop saying that, you're no looker yourself."

"Hey, at least I wash my hair – which is more than I can say for these guys." He swore at his DS. "Damn, Edgeworth's freaking pissed." He snapped the DS shut to avoid dealing with Edgeworth's Pokemon Outrage for the moment and turned up to look at Kristoph Gavin instead. The man looked as impeccable as he did the last time he saw him, leaning against the bedpost boredly.

"Don't you think that's going to hurt your chances for a parole?"

"No difference to me," He shrugged. "It's a few months on my sentence – maxed. And it's not like I have an arm-long list of parties to attend once I've done my stint here." He aimed a glare at Kazaf, who coughed modestly.

"Still sore about me, I see."

"And your inadequate planning." Kristoph sniffed disdainfully and checked his nail.

"Alright, alright," Kazaf exhaled a defeated sigh. "I'll give you a present to make up for it, okay?" He snapped a finger at the doorway, and a moment later a guard appeared on it's threshold, as though by magic – though slightly out of breath.

"Get the prisoner's truck please. I think it'll be wiser to move Kristoph here out of jail and into the penitentiary right away."

Kristoph raised a delicate eyebrow. "San Quentin?"

Kazaf chuckled. "Not unless you like nooses."

* * *

_I hate closed up space. We were walking into an elevator today, and suddenly this really horrible sound just came out – like a cross between a screech and a yell and a scratch. Then the whole thing just jerked, like it was going to fall – and you know me – I hate heights and I hate small cramped places almost as much. I started screaming, not because, you know I was afraid or anything – I was just worried about the elevator. I mean, I swear I've read somewhere before that this apartment elevator just came loose and crash to the basement like crumpled metal...With five people inside._

_If that's not scary, I don't know what is. So I started screaming, and Kristoph – you know how he is too – just smacked me on the side of my head and told me to shut it – and stop using up all the air to do something as pointless as screaming. Then he just took out his cellphone (Which gets terrible reception in the elevator, if you care.) and started yapping on it to this guy who apparently doesn't speak English much, because Kristoph started turning purple and screaming even louder than I was earlier._

_Even I couldn't understand what he was saying, other than the word 'manager.'_

_So anyway, a while later, this bunch of people came and yanked the door apart, and we got out safely. I got detention for being late to school, and Mr. Gavin got a penalty from the judge for being late for the trial, and almost got shut out from the courtroom._

_So no burgers tonight – it's German food again. Kristoph's in a bad mood. _

_P.S Do you think it's possible to request for a claustrophobia cure from Santa? Kristoph said it's bull, but I dunno, if I can at least be as good as Kristoph is with cramped-up space/height/water/German food/talking to authority/public speaking/salad-making – I think I'll be plenty happy for Christmas._

***

The truck drew up short beside the Californian State Penitentiary, located almost outside the district of Los Angeles – but still belonged to it nonetheless in one of those nitpicky maps drawn up by sticks in the mud that must argue over square feet just to determine if a building legally belongs to one state or another. The building was grey – built with red bricks and painted over with a vengeful shade of grey, making the prison looked almost like it was an abandoned factory.

The simile brought yet another bout of sad thoughts for Kristoph, and he pushed it out of his mind, addressing Kazaf instead. The boy had chosen to ride with Kristoph on theback of the truck like the common criminal – 'Makes for a refreshin' change in viewpoint,' he had said – but Kristoph knew better. In that strange way of his, Kazaf was trying to replace Apollo, whose loss he seems to have taken as his fault.

"Ah the CSP. Who chose this place for me?"

"I did. It's pretty clean, and you won't have to worry about being pegged as a queer." Kazaf slid him a sly glance. "Though maybe you'll enjoy it – I don't know."

Kristoph raised an eyebrow. A pound on the back door of the truck, and a voice shouted from the outside.

"We're here, sir!"

Kazaf moved over to the sheet of iron wires tangled together to prevent the convict from escaping. "Well what are you waiting for? In case you didn't notice – we can't open this from the inside."

The guard nodded and with his permission, unlatched the back of the truck. The mass of iron wires, attached to the wooden partition swung open like a door and Kristoph leaned down, removing himself from the musty insides of the truck. A sky clouded over by gray greeted him, and without more orders from Kazaf, a pair of handcuffs were slipped around Kristoph's wrists. This time though, they didn't chafe his skin – he had gotten used to them and now knew how to move his hands around without making the metal scrap across his skin.

Their little parade – with Kazaf following closely after a guard and another following after Kristoph and Elizabeth moved into the building – and at the reception everyone was checked, even Kazaf.

"So what's this present you mentioned?"

"Oh, you'll see," He replied airily. And indeed he saw – he saw that the prison looked a lot different to a prisoner's eyes than to a visitor. You notice smaller things that now looked larger – the officers on duty leered more, the men behind the desks a little less respectful. They pushed you around a little more than when you're a visiting attorney that can sue the shit out of them. A few more checks and they were let in.

"Here we go." The guard told them. They were led to another building adjacent to the reception. Miles of sandy ground in between the blocks, stomped over by inmates till whatever was once was on it, wasn't on it any longer. Footsteps were visible on the sand, as it was break for the prisoners and they were allowed out – Kristoph encountered a few wandering around the yard in gray uniforms – not unlike those of a janitor.

"Funny," He spoke to Kazaf. The boy tilted his head upwards to meet his eye.

"Hmm?"

"Why hasn't they given me prison attire? I wasn't aware that you're allowed to wear your own clothes inside the penitentiary – at least they weren't when I last visited. Has the world changed so drastically?"

"You wish," He snorted. "I told them to let you keep it on – and they agreed, though not happily. It means more pockets for them to search through."

Elizabeth let out a little smile. "I think you won't need to pay the hangman if you wanted to execute Kristoph, Kazaf."

"Yeah," The little brat grinned. "All I have to do is take away his nail polish and his coat and he'll be putty in my hands."

Kristoph laughed – a sound that sounded a little rusty and unused. It had been days since the last time he laughed, honestly – and so they were all smiles when they finally stopped at Block C, the allocated block for Kristoph. They were led in down a hallway – one peppered with privileged cells this time. One housed a prisoner who leered out of the bars at Kristoph, and had it's own widescreen television. Another, housing a Chinese man, had a high shelve filled with Chinese artifacts. Their footsteps became slower as they progressed down the hall – this part of the prison was a little less well lit. At then end of the hallway, they came up to his cell.

"_Mein Gott_," He gasped softly, staring at the prison cell. It was his, no doubt about it – he didn't even need someone to tell him. The cell – was in itself no less luxurious than those he had seen earlier – with the marked difference that the things inside weren't strangers – they belonged to him, things he had seen days earlier in the apartment he shared with Apollo and things he had thought he would never see again after his incarceration.

"Surpirse, eh? Kazaf grinned up at him, pleased with his reaction. "The block's for the rich bitches – mafia heads that got themselves stuck in but still have enough influence on the streets and inside here to get what they want. We turn a blind eye to them, mostly because it causes less trouble that way."

"Is it like this in all penitentiaries?" Kristoph asked, still amazed by the speed and dexterity in which his room had been replicated into the cell. His armchair was there, along with his bookshelf. Even his violin peeked at him shyly from amongst the books, accompanied by a fresh stock of roses.

"No, not all. Only on the 'better' ones. It's not as bad here as in NY though – some of those have so much stuff you really wonder why they don't bother giving them a hole to walk out off too." He looked up at the number plate and whistled. "Number thirteen huh? Suits 'Death', alright."

Kristoph nodded, dazed. "How did you get these stuff here in time?"

Kazaf shrugged. "I just put in a word for my men to ship the stuff in from your house."

That caught Kristoph's attention and he looked up sharply. "Apollo just allowed you to take the things out like that?"

"Actually," Kazaf rubbed his chin. "He was nowhere to be seen. I had my people just break down the door – or wire them apart in this case I guess. A new detective just got shipped in from central, pretty handy with the science stuff."

"He hasn't returned home?" He asked, a little sharply. He stretched his fingers and counted, he had spent two whole days in the court jail while they worked out the kinks in his case...Why hasn't Apollo returned home in that time?"

Kazaf rubbed his chin in answer, shifting his weight uncomfortably from leg to leg. "Well I asked the landlord..."  
"Yes?"

"He said Apollo has moved out."

"What?" He burst out in a near shout. "He just moved out of the place – just like that?" A guard leaped forward to restrain him in case he decided to take it out on their chief of police.

"Hey! Don't yell at me – it's not my fault!" Kazaf jumped back a step. "It's not like he can afford the place on his own anyway – have you seen the price tag on the place?"

Kristoph clicked his tongue impatiently. "But the deposit won't run out for another year yet – why shouldn't he simply stay there? It would save him a hell lot on rent."

The lady, who had all this while been talking to the guard looked over – disdainful look on her face evidence that she had been listening closely to the conversation.

"Would _you_ want to stay there alone, if your roles were reversed?"

The boy nodded his agreement, fingering the latch on the door a little awkwardly. "He told the landlord that once the deposit has expired to contact you or whichever attorney that represents you then to find out what you want to do with the furniture and stuff."

"Did he..." Kristoph bit his lip worriedly. "Did he take anything with him?"

Elizabeth mistaken his worry for Apollo for another kind of worry altogether.. "You don't have to worry about your worldly goods – if that's what you're worried about. He's not a thief, Kristoph."

"No, that's not it," He protested. "I just want to know if he took everything of his – I mean, he can't exactly wander out in the streets barehanded." Her expression soften, and Kazaf grinned up at him, relieved.

"He took his clothes with him – a bag, a few law books and his diary, but that's about it. He took some money that you stash in the house too, according to the landlord – but he told him to tell anyone who ask that he'll return the money."

Kristoph sighed. "He doesn't have to be that formal."

A guard spoke to Kazaf, and he nodded. "Well, I have to go now. Settle in properly now."

Kristoph returned the nod and the guard unlocked the door. Kristoph stepped in with a tiny bag containing the belongings he was allowed to possess, and the door slammed shut behind him, the lock moving back into place with a loud click – as though challenging the newly locked inmate to just try and break free of it. The two guards walked off, followed closely by Elizabeth, and Kristoph started unpacking his meager belongings. He was halfway through his things – some small notebooks and mementos they had allowed him to keep – when Kazaf interrupted him.

"Are you still angry about Apollo – and what he did?"

Kristoph smiled. "If I was, don't you think I would be angrier with you? You're practically the engineer of it after all – along with that man."

No one needed an explanation as to who that man was.

"Are you?" Kazaf insisted stubbornly, and Kristoph sighed in response.

"Why so nosy?"

"I just want to know," He grunted. "It's partly my fault too, as you said."

Kristoph placed a photo of Vongole on the table. He removed another photo – this one of Apollo, and placed it beside the other frame, Kazaf's eyes following his every movement.

"I won't lie and say I'm not angry..." He started.

* * *

_I tried to find out about Klavier – the person that I told you I would dig out information about. The thing is, I tried looking him up around the stuff lying about the house, but that's a no-go. I haven't seen him so much as mentioned in the files he keeps on his tables, and there isn't a family album or those kind of mushy stuff for me to look through. It's almost as if Mr. Gavin doesn't have a family himself at all – you would expect at least SOME mention of his family, but no, he clams up every time I ask him about it._

_I tried looking it up online next, but the only thing that came out made no sense. Klavier means piano in German. Why would Mr. Gavin be talking to a piano? And anyway, why would a piano answer back, much less wants to stay in our house? That's just plain weird._

_So I looked it up as a name next – but all that came out was this really flashy rock band with ridiculous jewelry all over them. The lead singer is so purple he looks like a brinjal – and his other bandmates are almost as bad, if not worse. At least the lead singer has normal hair, short cut – which is more than I can say for this other guy in his band..._

_I did notice something though. His name was 'Gavin' – Klavier Gavin to be precise. And the band's called The Gavinners. Coincidence?_

_I hope so, because I don't want a rock star as a relative._

***

A month later. Kristoph was only getting accustomed to his life in prison – which was more boring than anything else. He had expected that it would be restrictive – after all, that was the idea of prison wasn't it? Placed an animal where it belongs – a cage – and watch as it paces back and forth, back and forth all day long until it perishes of boredom or claw itself to death. What he didn't expect was that there was something worse even than that restrictiveness. It was boredom, suffocating boredom - spending the one hour you were allowed in the yard staring at the wall. It rose from the border of the yard – all of ten feet, surrounded by barbed wires where there was no wall.

It calls out to you, and it tempts you. Doesn't it look easy? It asks you. Just take a step. Yes that's right, that's a good boy. Take another. Then another – and you find yourself with your palm against the rough surface of the brick wall, wondering...How much would it take to knock it down? You move your palm across the grainy surface again, and for the first time it registers on you that it feels solid – much too solid for your liking.

And then you repeat this ritual every other week until you start to go out of your mind.

Especially when they had as little to do as Kristoph. Kristoph had nothing to do, not even simple jobs assigned to normal inmates due to a court ruling that forbid criminals in for serious offenses to work. A serial killer down in another prison had slaughtered another inmate, and the court suddenly realized how dangerous it was to let murder criminals out – even for small windows of time to earn their keep – so the high profile criminals had absolutely nothing to do. They, like Kristoph sat in their cell all day. They, unlike Kristoph however, had things to do with that time. They plotted things they would do once they got out of there. They told their neighbours about the kids and grandkids they left behind and how they were going to spent time with them once they leave and go on the straight and narrow. They told them how the moment they got out of this shithole they were going to burn down the first PD that they can find.

Kristoph had books to keep him company.

So he read, all day long. He wormed himself a comfortable nest in his bed, forming a mess worthy of Apollo with the sheets. The bed he had moved so that the sun that sliced in from the small window warmed it, and he sat there for long periods of times. Reading, reading, reading. When he was done, Kazaf sent more – the boy had plenty of books and was always happy to find someone to fob off his old ones – and he read and he read and he read.

And he thought and he thought some more, thinking back on some things, reminiscing about others. He thought so much that sometimes he thought he was going crazy, and most of the time he wished he had something to with his hands – because when they weren't holding books, they itched to wrap themselves around who he considered to be the person responsible for everything – Phoenix Wright. In for a penny, in for a pound – he wouldn't mind adding another murder to his repertoire.

When he wasn't busy wishing Phoenix away to perdition – he spent time thinking about Apollo. He realized sometime around his second week in the penitentiary that that wasn't good for his mental health either, so he stopped. Also unlike the other inmates, he had no visitors – no one to look forward to every other week for a little conversation. Kazaf had his own work to do – and it wasn't like he could drop in all the time. The law had a rumour mill, and it liked nothing but to churn out more about the chief of police and his shady dealings. Elizabeth hasn't come to terms with what he had done, and had refrained from contact with him, other than to send him a jar of her biscuits.

Which was why, when the guard stopped in front of his cell one day while he was making his rounds, it surprised Kristoph.

"You've got a visitor, Gavin."

Kristoph looked up from the book he had been reading – Socrates - (Really, why can't Kazaf send him something less boring? Danielle Steel's new novel was on the market, but does he get them? Noooo.) and raised an eyebrow.

"Who is it?" He asked – his voice cracking a little, and he licked his lips. He hadn't spoken for almost a week now, and he had forgotten what his own voice sounded like.

"Some other kid name Gavin. "

"Klavier?" He asked. The guard shrug in response.

"Don't know – why don't you go see for yourself? Come on, out with you Gavin – you've had enough of sitting around, time to get a breather."

The guards did not give a bloody damn if the inmates were not getting enough of a breather, but quiet convicts had a higher tendency to snap one day, so they preferred it when their inmates were verbal in their abuse.

Kristoph nodded and replaced the book on his shelf. The guard clicked the door open, and he was led to Block A – the block for all things reception and all things administrative. It was equipped with a long row of rooms where visitors could meet up with the inmates, and it was there that Kristoph had been led to – quite like a cow behind it's master. The guard opened the door for him, and when it sprang apart, he saw what he expected to see – Klavier, clad in his usual leather in a steel chair.

He wished he could run away.

Kristoph hesitated, looking at the guard. Perhaps he could have a change of mind – tell the guard that he wasn't feeling well, that he wanted to return to cell – hell, he'll tell him anything, as long as he could get the hell out of there and not face Klavier,

Klavier glared at him.

_Don't you dare run away, Kristoph Gavin._

Kristoph stepped into the room, booting up his defensive mechanism. Pleasant smile. A slight mocking ascent of the head, and he was ready to face his brother, sliding himself smoothly into the cold steel chair – a reminder for the prisoner of who he was, as he saw it. A long moment of silence stretched as brother faced brother.

"...Hey, Kris." Klavier said at last.

"Hello, Klavier."

"How's prison food?" Klavier shot out the moment Kristoph stretched in his seat. It took him by surprise, and he chuckled. Trust his brother to come up with such a silly question – typical after all.

"Oh, it's really quite alright. But I believe the food is quite different on the other side of the yard. On mine, we eat better than the officers themselves."

"Ah," Klavier lounged backwards, tipping his chair onto two legs, the picture of nonchalance with one hand tucked behind his head. His other hand drummed constantly on the table though, and that betrayed his nervousness. "What about your room? Is there anything I can do to make it more comfortable?"

"You could start by not making it out like some sort of vacation home," Kristoph chided, but he found it refreshing at least that not everyone was all gloom and doom about his sentence. No wonder the other inmates looked forward to visitors so much they had a calender all filled up with crosses, marking the days until their relatives visited them. Klavier flushed.

"Sorry," He mumbled.

"Don't be." Kristoph smiled at his brother, rocking the chair back and forth like an expert. "But you seem to have come to terms with my sentence...From the last time we spoke."

The last time they had spoke had been on phone – Kristoph had hung up the phone in exasperation with his brother, who absolutely refused to believe that his older brother would really do such a thing, even when he admitted to it. He insisted again and again that Kristoph was just covering for someone else – that there was no way Kristoph would do something like that. Was it Apollo? He had asked, and if Kristoph had been less furious he would probably have collapsed with laughter at the thought of Apollo killing anyone.

Klavier tilted his chair some more, now bent at almost 75 degrees and one of his hands griped the edge of the table to stop himself from toppling over entirely.

"Yes well...I guess I finally admitted that we all make mistakes."

"It's not a mistake, Klavier – face that. I killed a man because I was an evil man – don't make up this fairytale of me inside your head of my being some sort of fabled defender of justice – because it's not real."

The chair came back down to earth. Klavier's eyes were closed.

"I know that." He muttered. "I don't know why you did it, I don't understand why you did it, and I don't think you're an evil person...But I've accepted it."

"That's good." Kristoph tilted his head up at the fluorescent lights and sighed, though he had no idea what he was sighing about. "That's good." He repeated again. "So how's things outside the boundaries?"

"Eh.." Klavier held up his fringe and let it fetter down on it's own. "It's okay, though Daryan's still a fag. We're going to have a concert with Lamiroir later this year."

"Ah, that charming Borginian lady?" _The one that looked startlingly like Thalassa Gramarye?_

"Yeah...Her voice is like, achtung. Melody of the Gods, nein? It sears."

Kristoph nodded his ascent – the lady was really quite good at what she did, even though that was not the first thing he had noticed about her. A long, comfortable silence trailed off as Kristoph placed his hands on the table, pondering his interlocked fingers while Klavier returned to rocking his chair back and forth, back and forth. Kristoph stared at the motion, almost lazily – it was so hypnotizing.

Then abruptly, the hand Klavier had on the table gave way and the chair toppled backwards, falling onto the ground. His brother made no effort to stand, only staring up at the ceiling.

"I'm going to get that Apollo Justice." He announced at last. Kristoph's head snapped up like he had heard a gunshot.

"What did you say?"

"I said – I'm going to get that Justice kid. The one with the shiny forehead." His position on the floor prevented him from glaring at Kristoph, but he did an admirable job of it anyway. "The one _you_ adopted."

"No you're not." Kristoph stated, calm and authoritatively – though inside he didn't quite feel the same. What did you call the emotion that crosses between anger and fear, swirled together like eclair?

"Yes I am."

"No you're not, Klavier," He hissed out. "And that's final – leave him alone."

Klavier hooked one leg on the table, and with one swift kick, pulled the chair back up – throwing it forwards until it was back in it's original position and his face was twenty inches away from his brother's.

"You might be able to forgive that backstabbing twerp – but I can't. You're in jail because of him, Kristoph."

"I'm in jail because I committed a crime."

"No, you're in jail because your so-called 'son' backstabbed you!" He yelled slamming a fist onto the table. "I read the record of the trial – Kristoph! And he's had it for you since the start!"

"No he didn't Klavier – I told you, I'm in jail because--"

"_DON'T GIVE ME THAT SHIT!_"

The chair hit the ground with a bang when Klavier stood. The table quivered violently at his impulse. His breath was ragged as he bit out. "What kind of 'son' would go around helping his client stick his own mentor into jail?"

"The kind who's a good attorney," Kristoph shot back.

"Well, he's a far better attorney than he is a son then."

Kristoph narrowed his eyes, and Klavier narrowed his. Brothers hissed at each other like cats in a catfight.

"He has nothing to do with the verdict, Klavier – and even if he did, you still don't have a right to 'get' him."

"So you admit he had it in for you."

"I'm not admitting anything except maybe this – you weren't there. You don't understand how it is." He said simply, as though explaining something to a four-year-old.

Klavier laughed – a note of harsh, rusty laugh that mocked. "Oh, so he's not to blame at all for your being behind bars now?"

"I didn't say that," Kristoph snapped.

"What ARE you saying then? Because all I hear is indecisive denial."

"I'm not-" He sighed and raked a hair through his blonde mane, knowing how futile it was to get into a spat with his brother when he was in that sort of mood. "Look, just leave him alone. I know you blame him for this mess – but it's not his fault. And sit down, Klavier."

Klavier did not sit, he fell into the chair angrily.

"Okay, fine, whatever. I won't screw him then."

Kristoph glanced at him warningly. "Klavier..."

"But as soon as he gets himself a trial – that's it, I'm going to sign myself up for the same trial."

"Didn't I just told you to leave him alone?"

"Yeah and I said I won't screw him – it doesn't mean I won't try my damnedest to bump into him in the courtroom." Kristoph's fingers, which had been tapping angrily on his arm pinched around the fabric of his suit, wrinkling them.

"I think that sort of defeats the purpose--"

"Ah-ah." Klavier wagged a finger at him. "I promised I won't insult him right off in public – but I want to see for myself what's so great about this kid that you're so keen on protecting him."

"You wouldn't be able to understand that from a trial." A hand came up to right his glasses.

"I still want to see...The kid who defeated my brother."

Klavier glared at him, and Kristoph could see from his unwavering glance that nothing he could do would stop his brother and his determination to face Apollo in court. He felt like protesting, but at the last moment, he shut his mouth. The idea wasn't without merits...

"Very well then." Kristoph smiled wistfully at the thought of his brother meeting Apollo. Knowing Apollo, he would probably throw something at Klavier – he had low tolerance for people who weren't high-strung like himself. A knock sounded on the door – the sign from the officer that their little meeting was about to end. "Just promise me one thing."

"Hmm?"

"Look out for him, won't you? He's still new to all this."

Klavier cracked his first real grin that day, snapping his fingers in rhythm to silent music. "Don't worry about it – I wouldn't..."

He stood and performed to the audience of one his famed air guitar. "...hurt the closest thing I have to a second brother, ja?"

* * *

_I haven't written anything in here since...That day, have I? I would apologize, and tell you that I've been busy lately but the truth is... I'm just sick of this book. Sick of everything that reminds me of back then. I tried reading a few pages from my earlier days, but every time I go back, the same thoughts occur to me. I hate that Apollo Justice, that silly smiling kid that thinks everything is alright. And every time I read about how much he adores that mentor of his, well it makes me even sicker._

_Perhaps I've changed too much. Many people do things to erase bits of themselves. It can be something as simple as an online account, or a diary, or a blog, or even alienating a friend that reminds us too much of things we rather forget. Perhaps this is the same, I don't want to read about how I was, because I'm trying to forget what I was._

_And...I still haven't found a real job. I've gotten a few cases I guess, small stuff mostly. Defending this guy for being sued by his own boss for negligence during duty but...That's about it. At the rate I'm going, I probably won't even be able to pay rent anymore, but at the same time I just don't want to go back to that place – nor do I want to turn to Phoenix Wright. It might have been Kristoph who did it, Kristoph who is at fault, and Kristoph that I hate – but Phoenix Wright...I guess I've grown disillusioned. Once, he was my undefeated hero. Now he's a soiled being, same as Kristoph._

_I haven't spoken to anyone else recently either. I got a temporary job at this firm downtown as a paralegal, but I haven't spoken to any of my colleagues since I first stepped into the place. They call me a snob behind my back, and maybe I am one. I have nothing to say to them. I feel like an old man trapped in a young person's body. Everything I do seems heavy and hard. Every conclusion I make is tainted with the brush of the cynical, no one can be trusted. Not even a maintenance worker can be seen without motive. For every person that I meet – I invariably ask myself : What skeleton hides in his closet? Behind that smiling facade of yours, behind that hand you reach out to befriend me, what thoughts lurk? What do you hope to gain in return?_

_...Falling from grace seems to be what a lot of us are doing these days isn't it? _

***

Apollo tip-toed into his own apartment as though he was afraid of ghosts coming after him with an axe. He checked behind every five seconds in fear of a suddenly materializing form, and he softened his footsteps by stretching his feet _flaaaat_ so that they would muffle a little of the sound his shoes made when he moved on the cement ground. He made it to his room in time, turned the key and almost threw himself in like an action movie hero – stopping only to lock his door.

Phew.

He wiped at his forehead. He was safe now.

He swaggered forward into his tiny apartment – made out of one bedroom and one toilet – and threw his briefcase onto the bed and turned on his laptop. That was another thing he pilfered from Kristoph's house, but he planned to return it one day – assuming he hasn't overworked it to death by then. Normally thoughts of the old house left him feeling depressed, but this once, he was so happy that he didn't care. He survived another day – the landlord missed him again.

Apollo knew he couldn't go around avoiding the landlord forever, he knew he would have to cough up the rent eventually or find himself returning home one day to a large 'evicted' sign on his door. But that was another day, and he really really had to get the paperwork done or Mr. Swiss would be all over him again tomorrow morning. Sighing, he turned on the hot water tap in the bathroom, then narrowing the shower until it poured very little water. He filled up his mug with the shower water, then poured a packet of instant coffee into it, inhaling a deep breath filled with the scent of cheap, water-down coffee.

Ah....Bliss. That mug would have to last him all night again.

He went to work on the paperwork, filing through lists after lists of clients that made no sense to him. Grouping things together. Filing some paperwork to be served to the plaintiff tomorrow morning. Send a couple of e-mails to the other paralegals for more files, tapping his fingers impatiently while they took their longest to send back the information he needed. He checked the clock mounted on one side of the wall, above the large window leading to the balcony. Four o'clock. He had no worries of his colleagues being asleep though. You just don't sleep when you're a paralegal in a firm that can afford to throw out a dozen spoiled gears.

Apollo stood up and walked out to the balcony while he waited. The balcony was what he chose this apartment for in the first place – despite there being cheaper ones with more space. He loved balconies, even though he hated heights. There was something about the wind in your hair that made everything felt so peaceful, so happy. He closed his eyes and hummed.

When he reopened them again, it was because there was a light ping on the computer. He walked back in. His colleagues had responded and the file was being sent over. He approved the file and sat down, opening one of the cabinets under his desk to retrieve another related file. But when he opened the cabinet, something fell out with a plop. Apollo blinked his eyes at the object, eyes unfocused after staring at so long at the computer screen.

When they recovered, he saw what it was. That red, leather-bound diary Kristoph had given him. The one with '_Gerechtigkeit_' sewn onto it's cover. The one that when Apollo had came back after the trial, had written beneath those words _Justizirrtum_, the abortion of justice – a word he learned long ago from Kristoph. Now he regretted his rash decision. The ink he had used on it had spread out on the cover, and now it barely resembled the original words – it had become misshapen, a mass of black ink spreading on it like a tumour on the lovely cover.

Apollo reached down to pick it up – but at the last moment he froze, fingers scraping hesitantly over it's surface.

He hadn't written anything since that last entry, and even that was almost two weeks ago. And he hadn't read anything he had written there from earlier either. Perhaps he should read it then – come to terms with himself. There really wasn't a point dwelling on things any longer – of beating himself on the head with it. He needed to move on, to piece himself back together and live his life. He looked up and checked the download time. Still a long way to go, considering it's bulk and his slow internet connection.

_Very well then..._

He picked up the book and crawled out to a corner on the balcony and started reading from page one.

* * *

_He never tells me the truth you know. I don't know why, but I find it easy to read him – not so much as others though. Some people are just easier to read than others – when I told him about it, he was kind of sceptical, but he said he guessed it would make sense. Some people wear their hearts or their sleeves, and some people, they don't. Some people are pathetic at lying, some stammer when they do, and some are pros at it – it's as simple as that. He looked really strangely at me when he said it though._

_Back to spotting him, I seem to be able to do it. It's not like, a psychic power or anything, and nothing really jumps out at me and goes 'Yo, he's lying yo!' but whenever he lies, I get this...Funny tingly feeling. You know the way you feel before something really big happens? (I guess you wouldn't, you're a book.) That nervous energy goes sizzle sizzle in the pit of your belly before everything just hits you at once? Kinda like that. _

_And I've just realized lately exactly how often that happens. Every time he goes out, and I ask him 'Where are you going?', he'll tell me something like, he's going back to the firm to retrieve something he left behind. That's a lie – or at least, I feel it's one. Anyway, it doesn't take any special talents to figure out he's lying. I mean, this is Kristoph Gavin we're talking about right? The one who never forgets things, much less leave things behind?_

_Yeah, genius._

_It's not really the lying I'm bothered about – hey, I lied to him when I told him why I like guava juice too (Like I would ever tell him it was because I saw it on TV once that it'll make your skin smoother. Pfft.) It's the frequency of it lately that's been bothering me. He's lying about everything – from why he's going out, to his cases in court, or what he's doing later. Everything. That one time on Sunday when he told me he was going grocery shopping, he was lying too. I don't get it, why does he keep doing that? Is telling the truth so hard – or does he just not trust me?_

_...But then again, maybe I'm wrong. It's not that I'm like, psychic or anything. Maybe it really is just a gut feeling, and my gut feeling is wrong._

_I just wish he would tell me the truth SOMETIMES._

***

Kazaf hung up the phone and stretched himself on his toes, reaching up with his outstretched fingers to retrieve the cookie jar on the upper kitchen cabinet. He managed to get it eventually, standing on the tip of his toes, and he pulled it down with him, nearly breaking it in the process.

"Damn," He swore. "Hit me already, puberty."  
"What was that?"  
He turned around and smiled at his sister, whose head was stuck in the fridge as she too pulled out a carton of orange juice. She peeled apart the top, and gulped down half the carton before she came up for breath.

"Ah, the original juice. I don't know who invented oranges, but I would like to bear him many children." She sighed contentedly. Kazaf grunted and took the rest of the carton from her.

"You shouldn't be drinking that – you should be drinking milk." Elizabeth commented, taking a seat beside him around their kitchen table. Their chairs were the high kinds you sometimes see at bars – though a little classier – and his feet dangled off the sides awkwardly.

"Shut up. I'm already seventeen and I've been drinking milk since I was eight. If it was going to make me taller, it would have done so a long time ago." He dipped a cookie into the orange juice and grimaced at the taste. "How disgusting."

"Well, chocolate and orange tend to make that, yes."

"Silence, lowly human." They watched the television hanging above them silently while Kazaf munched his cookies at a speed that would put the hamburger-eating champ of the states to shame. Kazaf had no doubts that if there was a cookie-eating competition,he would beat that Maya Fey at it at every round. He kept his eye on Elizabeth while he watched the TV though, any moment now and...

"So, what did he say?"

Bingo.

"Hah! And here I was wondering why you hadn't abandoned me right away for your firm."  
"Pssh." She whacked him playfully on the side of his head. "You know full well I only stay behind on Mondays if I want information out of you."

"I should have reincarnated as an Intel Centrino," He grumbled. She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Fine fine, I called in to that 'friend' of mine in the FBI. The case's closed – Kristoph is, for all purposes of discussion, no longer an actively pursued case."

"Ah. It's still on the records, though?"

"Of course it is. They have everything on the FBI records – even the detective's girlfriends' measurements."

"They're never going to erase it?" She asked, pilfering a cookie from his jar, earning an annoyed glare.

"Never. If Kristoph comes out five years from now and goes around pushing people into the subway, his file will be opened in a split second, and then even I probably won't be able to do anything." He munched thoughtfully. "I can blow him up though – that should help him get off the record."

Another swipe.

"Hmm." She imitated his thoughtful expression at the television. "Speaking of Kristoph, what happened to that horny apprentice of his?"  
"Oh, that?"  
"Yeap, that."  
"I don't know – these days the world's leading authority on all things Apollo Justice is Klavier Gavin, not me."

Elizabeth looked up from the television, taking another cookie. "Why?"  
"Did you hear about the Meraktis case?"  
"The really creepy one with the dead guy pulling the soup stand?"

"Noodle, not soup," He corrected. "And how can you not remember it? It only finished like a week ago."

She shrugged delicately. "I wasn't interested in it. The Kitakis are nice enough, but they prefer other kind of lawyers usually."  
"Yeah well, Klavier got himself signed onto the case – and got trounced by Tomato."

"Oh? Is he still going on and on about how he's going to screw Apollo?"

"Screw?" Kazaf chuckled. "You can be sure if he mentions screwing again the context would be on a totally different class."  
Elizabeth didn't even try to understand her little brother, whom she thought sometimes operated on a different plane of mentality than the rest of the world. "The animosity is still going on?"

"Nah, you know that Klavier guy – he can't even keep a straight face going, how's he going to do animosity?"

"That's good," She smiled. "I really hope the kid makes up with Kristoph though."

"Don't worry about it," He offered her a cookie and turned around, stretching himself and leaning against the table. He smiled out at the nice, gray day outside – the exact kind he like, gray, a little bleak – but one hundred and one percent peaceful. "It's over now, we're done with it."

The skies were so gorgeously gray that he couldn't help grinning at the clouds. It was the kind of day that makes you feel melancholic, but totally a-okay. "It's time to go back to normal life."

* * *

_Dear diary,_

_Mr. Gavin told me to record down the things I want to remember in this journal. Well, I have something I want to remember – today. We ended up spending half the day playing pacman and the other half playing pool. It's been the most fun I had since well, forever - I actually got beaten by him once in Pacman today, and I've never actually seen him as happy as he did when he beat me in Pacman. Maybe I'll let him win more often. _

_We've already packed up our bags. Tomorrow, we head back to the city and things go back to normal. Normal life, routine, you know, normal stuff._

_Tomorrow, I'll start investigating who this Klavier is – it's not much, but I'm hoping to start finding out what I can about Mr. Gavin – he's keeping way too many of them for his own good - A person can't live like that. It's like a snail with it's shell. Tomorrow, I'll start my epic battle – Me against Mr. Gavin's secret. _

_But for now, for today...I think I'll simply remember this day forever._

_Apollo Justice._

***

"You have a visitor, Gavin."

Kristoph looked up from the book he had been perusing, and saw immediately who the visitor was, unlike the last time. Perhaps he had gotten special permission, or perhaps Kazaf had his hand in it again – but either way, it was unmistakably Apollo who was standing behind the guard, a serious expression on his face as usual. He had no idea how his own face was, but he rather thought it had lit up.

"Ah, Apollo." He tilted his head a smiled. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Kristoph." He nodded.

"Come on in," He waved at the only chair in his room, and didn't move from the bed. He would have liked to stand up and greet Apollo, but he hadn't been standing for quite a long while too, and he didn't want to stumble over legs that lacked exercise in front of Apollo. The boy nodded and walked in, but he didn't sit, shoving both hands behind him and looked around the cell, surprised.

"I've been privileged," He offered by way of explanation.

Apollo smiled a little ruefully at his laughing glance. "It's nicer than my apartment," he admitted.

Kristoph laughed. "Let me guess, the whole of it is draped with red?"  
He blushed, turning into the colour of his vest. "Hey, red's a nice colour."

"For superheroes, maybe." He teased. Apollo flushed, and shifted from foot to foot, though not uncomfortably so. It made Kristoph almost forgot how things had been the last time they had met, or the circumstances, or the preceding, or what came of it. Standing in the same room like this – almost, almost, made him felt like he was back home again – with Apollo constantly bugging him about groceries and spoiled milk. The bars of the prison were long though, and they reflected accordingly on it's contents – reminding him of where they were, a reality that the cell had no wish to alleviate aside.

He looked up, and smiled at the boy – a face familiar to him for the pass six years. A face he had been angry at, and is still a little miffed at. But when he saw him like this, jumping from foot to foot nervously – well, there were some things that you can forget, even if it's just for a moment.

"So, why are you here?"

* * *

"So, why are you here?"

_How to answer that? _

Apollo wondered. He thought of telling Kristoph right off the bat why he was here – but then decided it sounded sort of awkward and unprecedented. He thought of running screaming away out of the cell, but that seems sort of strange too – besides, he would probably get arrested for disrupting the peace in the prison. He smiled ruefully at the thought.

Apollo had took almost two months to finish reading his own journal – which catalogued fatefully everything he had been doing since the first moment he had laid hands on the little red book. Sometimes, there were even two entries a day, and it took him longer to read through it than he would have reading bloody Gatsby. For the first time since the trial, he had made an honest effort to read back everything he had written without letting the tinted glasses of the trial to colour everything he had read.

It proved difficult, and more often than not he found himself putting aside the book. In the end he managed to struggle through most of the book, then right up to the last page he wrote without allowing himself to think too much about what everything Kristoph had done might have meant – and he had ended up even more confused than he was when he began.

Tried as he might, he couldn't seem to make sense of things. Part of him, cynical, judgemental Apollo was convinced that everything Kristoph had shared with him was a lie – that it had all been an act. After all, hadn't he heard from the man himself that he never wanted to adopt Apollo in the first place, that he was merely a missing link to some case he wanted to keep his eye on? It seemed a little strange to warrant such a dire action, but then again, this was Kristoph Gavin you are talking about. The man hardly make a decision that made sense, starting with his latest crime.

But on the other hand, Apollo was convinced that no one was such a good actor – surely, it was impossible? No one could go around for years in his life pretending to like someone he doesn't, pretending to laugh when he wanted to scream. It defied logic that anyone could be that deceitful, and that successful being deceitful – it buckled logic, and some part of Apollo clung to that hopefully. No one in their right mind would do that for six whole years of his life without snapping, but then again, hadn't Kristoph snapped? The poisoning was proof enough of that.

As a result of all these muddling, Apollo had ended up no better than he was when he had first started reading. He was now a little less angry, a little less betrayed, and he had come to decisions he wanted to inform Kristoph – as well as get some answers to his questions.

"I um..."

"Hmm?"

"I ah.." He looked up and spied a plate on a nearby table. "How's prison food!?"

Kristoph didn't even bother hiding the amused look on his face. "Oh, it's fine." He chuckled, laughing at some private joke. "We get very good food over at this part of the prison – almost better than that German restaurant, I might add."

"Oh." Apollo blinked rapidly at the floor, conjuring some sort of topic. Kristoph on the other hand, slipped out of the bed, which had been angled just right for the sun to get on it, and walked towards the chair. He looked a little unsteady on his feet, swaying back and forth discreetly before he collapsed into the chair. "Are you sick?"

Kristoph raised an eyebrow. "That's not a very cheerful first-thing to ask someone."

"The first thing I asked was the prison food," Apollo pointed out. Then, "You look kinda...Dizzy."

"Oh, with joy, I assure you." He teased, smiling. Apollo flushed to the hairlines – trust Kristoph to evade his questions like that. "I just haven't been getting a lot of exercise, that's all."  
Apollo scowled at him. "Don't they allow you guys to go out?"

"I'm not fond of the outdoors – far too hot." And that was that. Apollo found himself staring at the wall while Kristoph looked over at him expectantly. When he offered nothing else, he spoke out.

"So why are you here today? You didn't answer me." Apollo stayed silent. "Surely you hadn't come with the intention to question me on prison cuisine?" He joked.

Apollo didn't smile at that one, preoccupied with his own thoughts. He clasped his hands behind his back, moving a little forwards and backwards on the balls of his feet, staring at the ceiling instead of looking at the person he was speaking to.

"Do you...Remember what you said to that kid during the appeal?"

Kristoph was silent. He didn't pretend not to know what Apollo was talking about. "The part about how I never wanted to adopt you?" He asked. Softly, but unapologetic.

Apollo shook his head, which elicited a surprised look from Kristoph. "No, the part before that."

"...Just how long have you been standing there?"  
"Care to guess?"  
A look of annoyance crossed his face. "Either you tell me or you don't, Apollo – I don't remember everything from the conversation. What I had been saying before, I don't remember."

"You were telling him...About how you wouldn't have a place to stay in after you get out."  
"Oh." Kristoph looked aside. "That."

"I don't know what business you have with him." Apollo rocked himself on his feet again. "I just wanted you to know...That you can stay with me after you leave this place."

Kristoph looked up, startled, clearly not expecting this, and Apollo coloured a little, embarrased. "If you want to, of course," He added quickly, half expecting Kristoph to refuse right there and then or throw him out of the cell.

"Of course I would." He replied quietly. "Thank you Apollo, that's...Very nice of you."  
Apollo was momentarily lost for words, and Kristoph plucked a rose out of the vase, twisting it around his fingers absentmindedly, unwary of the thorns on it.

"Why did you offer that?" He asked at last, after tangling the rose around itself. "You heard what I said about you."  
Apollo bit his lip. "I don't know," he answered truthfully. "But...I've thought about it. I can't quite forgive you about it, but I guess I can understand why – after all, I never really believed that you just decided one day to adopt me for the sake of it."

"That makes two of us then," Kristoph added quietly.

"Huh?"

"Nothing...Just thinking about forgiveness and the funny things about it." He smiled mockingly, though it wasn't directed at Apollo. "Funny how sometimes we find ourselves forgiving someone, yet not quite being able to forgive it."

"Maybe that's what they meant when they said 'forgive but not forget' I guess."

"Perhaps."  
Apollo bit his lip again, then in a split second decision, walked up to Kristoph and thrust out his right hand.  
"Truce?"  
Kristoph blinked back surprise at him. "Pardon?"  
"Truce?" He repeated. "About everything that's happened."

The man raised his hand, but hesitated. "I can't...That's to say, I can't quite-"  
"- I know," Apollo interrupted him. "I can't either – and we don't have to. But truce nonetheless?"  
Kristoph smiled at him and extended his right hand too. "That makes absolutely no sense – but very well. Truce it is then."

They shook hands, and smiled at each other. Apollo beamed, happy over something he couldn't quite put his finger on – the kind of happiness that you get when you've just made up with your best friend, a mixture of relieve and jubilation. Kristoph was smiling too, and he twisted the rose some more. A thorn tore through part of his skin, but he didn't even notice, and Apollo resisted the urge to pluck it form his hands before he did more harm with it.

They stood like that, all smiles – rifts forgotten, at least for the moment. Before long Apollo wrung his bracelet, face calming into a serious look. He mustn't forget what he came here in the first place – or what he came here to find out. He had learned more about the bracelet from Trucy, and he was now a little better at reading people – which was part of the reason he came down here in the first place. There was something only the bracelet could tell him.

"That's one other thing I wanted to ask you."

"Hmm?" Kristoph looked up. The door clicked open, and the guard poked his head into the cell.

"It's almost time for your check up with the doctor, Gavin." He told the two men inside. Apollo nodded at him, and the head returned the way it came, leaving the door unlatched.

"What was it?" Kristoph asked him, continuing where they had left off. "You were about to ask me something." He reminded him.

"I um...Well, it can actually wait till later – after, maybe next time or...Something." He finished lamely. Kristoph scrutinized him, then smiled, as though he could see what he wanted to ask him.

"Come now, Apollo – don't be so skittish. If you're going to ask something, might as well do it immediately. Lack of impulsiveness breeds dependency."

"Was that how you came around to conking someone in the head?" He retorted. Kristoph chuckled at the remark.

They must really be alright now then, if they could joke about the murder. Gathering his courage, Apollo inhaled a deep breath, then pointed the question at him – making sure he was looking at him.

"What I wanted to ask was this...I know you never wanted to adopt me in the first place – but what about everything else? All those years, was it a lie too? Was all of it an act?"

His heart pounded inside him – refusing to settle, refusing to calm down. He had already resolved to accept the answer, whatever it was – and part of him already knew what the answer would most likely be anyway. But he wanted to hear it anyway.

Kristoph took such a long time that he thought he wouldn't answer him, merely glancing absentmindedly at the ground, the rose twisted into his hands so that the stalk form a small circle. Apollo waited. The lights above automatically flicked on at the precise stroke of six, but Kristoph merely sat there, like a statue that couldn't be moved.

At last, an eternity later, he smiled, still staring at the spot on the ground. He rose, and walked towards Apollo. When he was only a foot away, he bent forward and slowly, gently, pinned the rose onto Apollo's vest.

"It's...Been a fun time, Apollo." He whispered softly.

Without an explanation, he smiled, and before Apollo could reach out to stop him – to ask another question, or to ask him what he meant, he simply stepped back, and slipped himself out of the room, leaving Apollo to wring his bracelet some more.

* * *

"_I won't lie and say I'm not angry."  
"You haven't forgiven him?"  
"No, that's not something that I'll ever do."  
"But are you still angry with him?"  
_

"_Tell me something, Kazaf...How can you stay angry with someone you love?"_

***

_Diary? Today my father told me a truth._

_..._

_Man of Mist, Fin._


	20. Credits and Notices

Alright! Man of Mist is finally done!!!!1!!!!11ONEONE!!!!

That...definitely lasted longer than I expected, I was only expecting like, 10 chapters? _

Now that I'm done and you've read the whole thing (unless you just skipped to the end without reading) - you may now leave your hate mail. Flames and critiques are much encouraged! Hate mail is even more so! If you don't like something - don't bottle it up! It's bad for your health - shout it out!

xDDDD

Okay? Now, let's move on to the thank-you-i-love-you's.

**Credits**

This story would never have been possible without.

- Court records dot net. I don't think anyone needs an introduction about that website – we all go to it at one point or another. Without the information on the characters, I would never have gotten beyond more than chapter one. After all, how many times can a person go back and check their DS for information? So yes, a big thank you for them.

-An even bigger thank you is for Svedka – who made a script for AJ : AA on gamefaqs. If it wasn't for the faq, chapter fourteen would have been completely impossible. For one thing I wouldn't be able to piece together the bits of the trial, or determine what is relevant and what is not (I can't scroll back in the game, obviously) and the whole chapter would have simply fell apart. Believe me, I tried writing without the script and failed. Miserably. So thank you so much Svedka, for making the script! xD

- Ellcrys, who is an author of PW fanfiction here. Without ellcrys, there will be no Carlis on ff . His was the first PW fanfiction that I read, and I'm still of the opinion that he's one of the best authors on the PW sections. His writing style is amazing and smooth, and he's the reason I decided to join in the first place, as well as why I started writing fanfiction – to get just that little bit closer to the wonderfulness that is his fanfiction. (Actually, come to think of it – I'm not quite sure if he's a he, except for a mention of a girlfriend. And did I mention it's totally weird I'm gushing over someone I've never even reviewed? =X) It's thanks to him that I managed to motivate myself into starting to write at all.

-All my reviewers! Seriously, thank you everyone, so so much. It's thanks to your support that I manage to squeeze out the story. (And omg, I'm so tired x_x I have school in like, 4 hours and I haven't slept a lick.) I hope you guys enjoyed the story as much as I did writing it! And let this be a lesson to all! : Writing is fun, if only you get to poke Kristoph into doing crazy stuff.

-Capcom. Yes yes, you lucky potatoes. You made Ace Attorney, so now every fan thanks you/worships you/love you/ writes fanfictions about your game. So now that you're on the receiving end of so much adoration...How about making a GS5 with more Apollo? XD Pweeze? *Shiny eyes*

**On sequels, part twos, and such such :**

Man of Mist will not, for the strictest sense, have a part two/sequel. That is to say I will most definitely NOT come out with a story that goes, Kristoph and Apollo is fighting again/Kristoph comes out and lives with Apollo and [Insert humour/drama here] Actually, after writing about them for so long I'm getting a little tired of them. -Kicks Kristoph into bin- xDDDD

So yes, there will be no MoM part two, happily.

There will be a story later however that relates to MoM. It relates in the sense that it proceeds under the central assumption that Apollo was once adopted by Kristoph and/or he owes a debt of gratitude to Kristoph. Also, the timeline coincides, being placed two months after 4-4, so if you want a sequel to this story because you can't get enough of it (Snorts!) you can keep an eye out for it.

It'll be called Domino Effect and this is the summary. On second thought, let's make it a trailer! More exciting that way.

Ahem!

-Cue grand music-

-Cue curtains rise-

-Cue Apollo's forehead-

When a blackout falls the impregnable Californian State Penitentiary two months after 4-4, the security system fails for the whole of ten minutes. Riots ensued, and when they were calmed down, the officers find that three inmates are gone – Machi Tobaye, Daryan Crescend and Kristoph Gavin. The city issues an immediate information shutdown as the police - what few of them who know about the presence of murderers on their street - race to track down the escaped convicts for their own personal reasons.

Klavier is mobbed by the paparazzi, and he's determined to find his brother and put him back into jail before rumours get worse; Phoenix is convinced that Kristoph is the man behind those anonymous threats and chief of Police, Kazaf has to nab them before the escaped criminals do each other in and he has more paperwork on his hands – because now Machi is on the streets – trying to escape from Daryan, who is determined to give him a taste of his own medicine, trapped in a city where no one understands him. Only Kristoph seems to be missing from the act, showing no signs of hide or hair...

-Cue awesome grand music-

-Cue curtain falls-

-Cue author comes in and bows-

-Cue caramel penguins-

-Cue -- *Gets shot by audience*

**Edit :** The sequel is now up, under the title : The man who looked at the sky. And yes, it'll be more action packed than it's title suggests.


End file.
